Hide Your Fires
by xstormqueenx
Summary: Death is on the march, and with it war, Negan finding himself at odds with his heart in turn. {Negan Origins Story - AU}. UNDER EDIT
1. The Question Of My Heart

**Author's Note** : _Hide Your Fires_ serves as the prequel to my Negan/OFC/Rick  & Michonne/OMC series, the reading order of which is listed on my profile, including one-shots etc, but this story can be read as a standalone. Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 _Stars, hide your fires;_

 _Let not light see my black and deep desires... -_ Shakespeare

* * *

 **The Question Of My Heart**

"And they all lived happily ever after..."

Michonne closed the book of fairytales with a flourish, making Andre clap his hands with glee, his small face lighting up at her theatrics. As she dropped a brief kiss on his brow, a flash of movement caught her eye, making her glance up, only to see Doc in the doorway of her office, his suit crumpled, dark hair sticking up in all directions.

"Heda," Michonne called over her shoulder to her personal assistant, "would you take Andre out front for a moment? My ten'o'clock is here."

Heda set down her fashion magazine, before straightening her neon pink glasses and standing up, smoothing down her culottes with a carelessness that could have fooled even the closest observer. She played her part in the deception to perfection, never remarking upon how Michonne's ten'o'clock was always the same man, keeping her face carefully blank every time Doc came into the art gallery, announcing he had an appointment with Michonne.

Michonne handed Andre to Heda, mouthing 'thank you', before indicating for Doc to take a seat. But as the door closed with a click behind Heda and Andre, Doc crossed the carpet in two quick strides, pulling Michonne to him, his mouth crushing hers. Several long moments passed before Michonne drew away from him, her heart beating like a hummingbird in her chest.

"I thought we agreed all _that_ had to stop," Michonne said quietly, sitting down on the edge of her desk, Doc remaining deliberately on his feet.

"I really think we should stop saying I'm your ten'o'clock," Doc said with a frown, as if she hadn't spoken, "especially since you haven't had an appointment for the past two weeks."

"Three weeks actually," Michonne corrected him, running a hand down the side of her face, "orders for paintings have just tailed off, and as you know, all my goddamn entire staff have called in sick."

"All except the inimitable Heda," Doc drawled as he took off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the leather sofa. "The _unsinkable_ Heda."

"If it wasn't for her, I think sometimes I would just shut the gallery down," Michonne said doubtfully, "but she insists on keeping it running, says it will work out. She knows I love this place..." Michonne glanced around her, taking in everything she'd achieved, as if looking at it for the last time. "She's great with Andre," she added with forced enthusiasm, "ever since the daycare centre shut down, Heda's been all hands on deck with Andre, since I can't get a babysitter for love or money – a lot of money might I add."

"It would make more sense for you to close this place down," Doc said bluntly, studying Michonne's strained face, "what with all those bloody exhibitions being called off, your artists AWOL, your clientele equally MIA. Since that fool you call Andre's father prefers to peddle pharmaceuticals during the end of days, than make sure his family is safe" -

\- "Hey" -

\- "Oh, come on, the least he could do is watch Andre whilst you try to make it work here" -

\- "John!"

\- "Since you won't let me help," Doc snapped, "Mike should support you on this when he knows your heart is set on keeping the joint running. I mean, it's not like he's engaged in viable employment at the moment anyways" -

\- "Don't drag Andre's father into this," Michonne said dangerously, even as she didn't point out Doc was now equally as unemployed as Mike, "don't even mention him. I have the situation under control, okay?"

Doc looked away, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, his jaw tightening. He loved Michonne, but he didn't want to hide his heart, watching Michonne live a lie with another man. The night before, Doc had given Michonne an ultimatum, that he was ending their affair, stating he would stay away until she made her decision, yet here he was, unable to remain away from her side for even a day.

"I don't want our life to be like this, John," Michonne said, shaking her head, "but I have to consider Andre before _us_ , above everything else."

" _I_ don't want our life to be like this either," Doc retorted, enunciating every word, emphasizing his English accent, "to creep around, turning what we have into some sleazy, sordid arrangement" - As he spoke, Michonne suddenly sneezed, making Doc freeze.

"Don't," Michonne said thickly, holding up her hand, fumbling for a tissue with the other, "it's just my allergies."

Doc looked at her for a long moment, before turning away, wrapping his arms around his head. The flu outbreak had silently and slowly spread, contaminating and killing, the world realizing what it was too late. Now Albany was all but under martial law, with curfews being established and quarantine being imposed on infected areas. But Doc uneasily sensed there was a darker edge to events, seeing past the mass media censorship and into the oblivion beyond.

He had been reduced to refugee status, his passport confiscated the day before, all foreign nationals forbidden from leaving the country in case they caused the spread of further infection. It had only been six months ago when he'd agreed to take up tenure at Albany State University, moving country to start a new life in the States, spending the summer preparing himself for his new position, moving into an upmarket brownstone apartment building. But his future had unfolded in a way he hadn't planned, his life no longer the new beginning he'd sought to build. Yet he'd always reasoned that life was a fickle mistress, temperamental in turns, obtuse in others.

As he lowered his arms to his sides again, Michonne's gaze flickered over Doc, taking in his scuffed shoes and ink-stained shirt sleeves, a world away from the usually dapper Doc who wouldn't leave the house if one hair was out of place. Whilst Doc was conservative and cutting, Michonne was exotic and easygoing, the two somehow balancing each other out. From the moment she'd first seen him, her existence had suddenly become illuminated, Doc driving the darkness out.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Doc said irritably, throwing himself down onto the sofa, sliding the book of fairytales aside.

"I was just thinking about how we first met," Michonne said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "your head getting stuck in the elevator doors, how you screamed like a girl" -

\- "I did not" -

"You so did," Michonne countered, "and if I hadn't been there, your skull would have been" -

\- "Well, let's count ourselves fortunate my shapely skull didn't have its diameter drastically altered," Doc said loftily. "That's the silver lining to that particularly sorry tale."

"I thought falling for your _beautiful_ and _brilliant_ neighbour was the silver lining to that story," Michonne said with an arched eyebrow as she folded her arms across her chest, "that 'your whole world changed forever that day'."

Doc cleared his throat awkwardly, silently rueing Michonne's photographic memory, how she could quote verbatim sentences he'd said several months ago. "I stand corrected," he said, his dark gaze drifting over Michonne in her red and gold wraparound dress, her braided hair piled up on her head, "now where we?"

"Where were we what?" Michonne said, sauntering over, her hips deliberately swaying from side to side.

"You were here on my lap," Doc said, drawing her onto his knee.

"That was yesterday morning actually."

"You really do have a phenomenal memory."

"How's Imogen?" Michonne asked pointedly, making Doc's wandering hand freeze mid-thigh, before falling to his side.

"She is as mad as a box of cats as per usual," Doc said tiredly, "so nothing new on that front."

"She should have stayed in England," Michonne said for not the first time, ruefully remembering Imogen's determination to have her holiday, come hell or high water, "and then she wouldn't be in this mess now."

"Well, you know what Imogen's like when she gets the bit between her teeth."

Michonne just laughed, throwing her head back, Doc idly admiring the swan-like curve of her neck.

"You should have seen her with this soldier yesterday," he continued, playing with the belt around her waist, "tore a strip or ten off him for taking her passport. The poor bloke was practically cowering under his desk until she was frogmarched away in high dudgeon."

"I feel for her though," Michonne said quietly, "being so far from home."

"Thing is, you know she doesn't want to go back," Doc said tiredly, "since she's got nothing to go back to. She said the other day she'd just wanted to escape the shitstorm that's her life. You can guess how that made me feel. Now she's stranded here, and not in the way she's probably imagined, with a pina colada in hand and Orlando Bloom at her mercy."

"She's young," Michonne said tiredly, "and she'll adapt. She has to. But you can't keep holding her hand, Doc. She has to learn to stand on her own two feet."

"She already does," Doc snapped, startling Michonne, "but I'm all the family she's got. Maybe not by blood but by bond."

Michonne looked away, knowing she was fighting a losing battle, that Imogen was Doc's weak point. From the little she'd learned, Imogen was Doc's Eliza Doolittle, his pet philanthropy project, Doc trying to turn the girl into a woman but not with much success. It was a strange set-up, but in an even odder way, Michonne understood, having tried and failed to change Mike, excusing his every failure, standing between him and bitter reality.

"You don't really know Imogen, Michonne," Doc said coldly, "you think you do, but you don't."

"I think I have a better grasp of her than you think, John," Michonne said equally as coldly, "she needs you but doesn't want to admit it. Now she's stranded here, and she knows it's her own fault, and she doesn't like the taste of humble pie, having to admit you were right and she was wrong. Plus she's got to put her pride in her pocket and find it in herself to accept what she considers charity. She was here as your guest, and now she's forced to rely on you to feed her and provide a roof over her head."

Doc's jaw tightened. "She was actually talking of going out there and finding a job," he said stiffly, "but I said no, not with the way everything is falling apart. As if anyone is hiring anyways. _And_ she would be breaking the conditions of her visa" -

\- "Wow, such _startling_ attention to legal _detail_ " -

-"But if we're talking about money, we'll manage," Doc cut across her cuttingly, "the Board is paying me a small stipend to keep me sweet since they were so very anxious after all to secure my rather spectacular services before the world went to the dogs" -

\- "You know, you are such a _shy_ and _retiring_ man, so _modest_ and _timid..._ " Michonne teased, running her hand across Doc's beard, his frown instantly fading. "So I suppose the Board want to renew your contract when this outbreak shindig blows over?" she then said, tracing his thin features with the tip of her finger.

"Well, I am an eminent professor of anthropology," Doc said slowly, pressing his lips to her palm, "arguably the foremost in my field. They consider me a huge draw" -

\- "How about you consider _moi_ for a moment?" Michonne said, her mouth meeting his, making Doc's world agreeably end.

 _If I go on_  
 _With you by my side_  
 _Can it be_  
 _The way it was_  
 _When we met..._


	2. All My Hurt Is Over

**All My Hurt Is Over**

 _Lately I've been thinking about making changes_  
 _It's been on my mind for some time and I'm anxious_

 _I'm going out with a bang..._

"Boring. Boring. _Boring_."

Imogen flopped back on the sofa, flicking through channel after channel, her attention briefly caught by a news item... _high speed car chase, sheriff's deputy shot on duty, currently in critical condition in hospital..._ before resuming her mindless trawl through the trash that served for television. Aside from endless re-runs, all that was available for entertainment now was the constant coverage of the current flu outbreak being broadcast on every news station going, the tiniest detail picked over like bones and blown out of proportion.

Biting her lip, Imogen tried to backtrack, attempting to find the news channel that had mentioned the high speed car chase, figuring anything was better than hearing about the flu outbreak for the thousandth time. But by then, the item had been engulfed by the breaking news that Jonesboro had been taken over by the army, the area now officially occupied, making Imogen hastily change channel, refusing to face reality.

Exhaling sharply, she finally gave up, flinging the remote aside, picking up her phone instead. Upon trying to reach Michonne at the art gallery she ran, it was only to find the signal was down, an increasingly regular occurrence that was setting Imogen's teeth on edge. Resisting the urge to hurl her phone out of the window, she all but slammed it down on the coffee table, snatching up a battered paperback instead.

But not having a taste for Nietzsche or even a fondness for philosophy in general, the tightly packed text only served to irritate Imogen even further. Throwing it back down, nearly knocking over her now cold coffee, she got to her feet, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a Marilyn Monroe novelty lighter as she moved, deliberately ignoring Doc's decree of no smoking in his apartment.

Pacing the polished floorboards, she lit up a cigarette with a shaking hand, before taking a deep drag, half closing her eyes as the much needed nicotine soothed her shot nerves. Like Doc, her passport had also been confiscated, Imogen now officially stranded in Albany for the foreseeable future. She had wanted to shake off her shit life, but not like this, trapped at the end of the world. But deep down, she knew she had herself to blame, only intent on escaping England, albeit for however briefly.

Doc had advised her to remain where she was, as there had been increasing rumours of countries closing their borders, but she hadn't listened, refusing to let what she considered scaremongering to spoil her plans. But within a week of arriving in Albany, the whole of existence had suddenly started to unravel, Imogen finding herself in the epicentre of anarchy.

Initially the authorities had introduced a screening system, ordering foreign nationals who tested negative for the flu virus to return to their own country, but the system had collapsed under the sheer strain of trying to process too many people at once, the predictable consequence of an ill-planned procedure. Imogen's application had been delayed and then cancelled altogether, Imogen caught between terror for herself and for Doc, wanting to escape the disaster threatening to engulf them both, but refusing to leave Doc behind. He couldn't leave, even if he'd wanted to, the conditions of his visa excluding him from automatic enrolment for screening.

With the collapse of the screening system, weeks had went past until all foreign nationals had been suddenly ordered to report to the nearest makeshift military headquarters, Imogen and Doc attending Albany State University where the army had set up base, the irony of the location not lost on Doc, their passports then being consequently confiscated, leaving them both in limbo.

"Have you been smoking?" Doc demanded as he strode through the doorway, straightening his tie as he moved, fingers fumbling agitatedly with the knot.

Imogen whirled around, startled, too lost in her reverie to hear him coming in. "No shit, Sherlock," she said scathingly, deliberately taking another long drag.

"I bloody told you not to smoke in the apartment," Doc snapped, stalking over to the window, before flinging the sash up. "The smell clings to the curtains."

"I think we have more important things to worry about than your precious curtains," Imogen observed, not missing how Doc had his shirt buttoned up the wrong way, his flies undone. "Such as your crown jewels threatening to unleash their puny glory upon the world."

Doc glanced down before doing a double-take, hastily turning around, the tips of his ears turning tomato. "I have _boxers_ on," he said pettishly as he faced her again, "there was no danger of exposure at any time."

Imogen just flicked her ash into his favourite pot-plant, making Doc snap, unable to stand her brazen cheek anymore.

"They've closed the airports and docks," Doc snapped as he frogmarched her over to the window, forcing her to throw away her cigarette, "and they've stopped all travel between states."

"Well, I didn't see that one coming," Imogen said sarcastically, "and I'm down to my last packet of cigarettes by the way. That was a _waste_ of a fag."

"They're raising the drawbridge," Doc said more to himself, dark eyes becoming distant.

"What?"

"A rather large shitstorm is about to hit, sweetpea," Doc said impatiently, "the authorities are doing damage control as we speak, although their efforts are a bit late in the day."

"Don't talk bullshit," Imogen scoffed, finally understanding, "it's just an overreaction."

Doc did another almost comedic double-take at her shocking naivety. "I can't even get a Diet Coke for love or money," he said in disbelief, "what with all the shops being shut down, the army stockpiling everything, even bloody toothpicks. Did you miss that part, Imogen, you know where we're expected to live off rations that wouldn't feed a mouse on hunger strike? I'm having to dabble rather dangerously in the black market to put a decent meal on the table every night!"

"You get a stipend," Imogen said sulkily, completely missing the point.

""Yes, a pittance that could stop anytime," Doc said, thinking of the weekly trip downtown to collect his usual battered brown envelope filled with faded folded up dollar bills.

"Well, you have your savings, don't you?"

"The value of the dollar has dramatically fallen, the financial markets crashing, a recession threatening" -

\- "Well, let me go and get a job! Stuff my fucking visa!"

"A job doing what? Clearing corpses? Burning bodies!?"

"One of your stuck up neighbours saw fit to inform me earlier," Imogen spat, rounding on Doc, parodying his cultured but camp tones, "that she had it on good authority that the government was going to stop all foreign nationals entitlement to food stamps, so that I wouldn't be even entitled to starvation rations anymore" -

\- "I _told_ you to stay in England, Imogen," Doc cut across her, resurrecting his old refrain, "that it was a really bad idea to travel" -

\- "I'd rather be here with you," Imogen snapped, "than on the other side of the Atlantic, out of my mind with worry!"

Doc looked at her for a long moment, before turning away, hiding the tears burning in the backs of his eyes. There had been nights when he'd lain in bed, Michonne fast asleep beside him, Doc bitterly regretting his decision to take up tenure, feeling homesick and alone, unable to face the prospect of packed lecture halls the next day. But then the flu outbreak had begun, empty seats beginning to fill his eye-line, bruit brewing of cataclysmic catastrophe.

"I tried to phone Phoebe," Doc said suddenly, startling Imogen, "but it just kept going to voicemail."

"What, your ex-wife?" Imogen said, confused, remembering an old photo she'd once found in Doc's study. It had been of his wedding day, Phoebe at his side, exotically beautiful in her crimson and gold sari, her hennaed hand holding Doc's in almost a death-grip.

"Who else?" Doc said, going over to the bookcase by the door, seeking sanctuary in his shelves heaped with various volumes.

"Why though?"

"Why not?" Doc snapped, pulling out a textbook on anatomy, before tucking it under his arm.

Imogen just shrugged her shoulders. "You know, learning about limbs isn't going to change the fact the coffee has ran out," she pointed out. "I just drank the dregs."

"Then we'll just get Terry to get us more," Doc said through gritted teeth, the mere mention of Mike's best friend enough to set him on edge, but Terry had useful albeit illegal contacts Doc wasn't above exploiting.

At the mere mention of Terry, Imogen suddenly looked shifty, making Doc slam down his textbook.

"Has he been sniffing around here again?" he bellowed. "Well, it's no wonder is it?" he said, gesturing wildly at Imogen's hotpants and crop top combination. "Not when you're walking around with your arse hanging out half the time!"

"What's your beef with Terry!?"

"You know damn well why!"

"Your little love triangle has nothing to do with me or Terry" -

\- "I just don't want you getting sucked into his drug-addled existence" -

\- "You know I don't touch that shit" –

\- "Why the sudden turnaround over Terry anyways?" Doc said suspiciously, silencing her. "Way back, when he asked you to accompany him to that art exhibition, you turned him down flat. So why have you changed your tune?"

"I didn't object to the company, only the choice of venue," Imogen said stiffly.

"So what is this venue? Drug den? Back alley?"

"It's a fancy party he's taking me to," Imogen retorted, "not some seedy shit-hole."

"I hope you have the appropriate attire then."

"I do," Imogen said, having already mentally mapped out what she would 'borrow' from Michonne's wardrobe, "it's in the bag."

"So you've conquered another victim, then," Doc said tiredly, "another fool falling at your feet. Shall I bring out the smelling salts?"

"Shut up," Imogen said tiredly, running her hand down her face, "I'm... I'm not really interested in Terry. I'm more interested in drowning my sorrows than anything else."

"With alcohol illegally acquired, probably."

"There was another power cut," Imogen said, changing the subject, not before giving Doc the middle finger. "About ten minutes after you left to see Michonne. All the lights went out."

"Then maybe you shouldn't burn the lights during the day!" Doc snapped, flinging up his hands. "And anyways, talking of Michonne, she might have a job for you," he added somewhat shamefacedly, remembering his earlier outburst over Imogen seeking employment.

"And just when we're talking about changing tune" -

\- "She's trying to keep the gallery going," Doc said abruptly, "but it's only her and Heda to keep things ticking over, and with Mike constantly AWOL, it's hard for her to balance the business and the boy" -

\- "The boy has a name" -

\- "I like the little man," Doc said, "but just now he is the _boy_. He just broke my watch actually. Genuine antique Cartier all cracked to hell" -

\- "Is there a point to this discussion?"

"Michonne can't get a decent babysitter – actually no babysitter at all," Doc amended, "and what with the daycare centres closing down, you and she could solve each other's problems, visa conditions or not."

"I'm not exactly the maternal type though."

"You need money, Michonne needs a babysitter," Doc said bluntly, "in fact she needed one tonight, but that's obviously out of the window."

Imogen's brow furrowed. "What does she need me for tonight?"

"She's coming over to cook for me tonight," Doc said, ignoring Imogen's raised eyebrow, "Mike's at his mother's - apparently the old dear took a panic attack, so he has to stay over."

Imogen looked thoughtful. She had long since known the set-up of Doc and Michonne's 'relationship', Doc introducing them over Skype, Imogen realising Michonne must mean something to Doc, that it wasn't just two ships passing in the night. Since then, she had struck up a strange friendship with Michonne, albeit an online one, but it had continued into real life, Michonne adopting a maternal attitude towards Imogen, seeing the younger woman was strongly without direction.

"Michonne managed to get her hands on this beautifully thick and juicy porterhouse steak," Doc admitted, his dark eyes glinting at the thought, "Heda's stepfather is a butcher, so he... ah, _acquired_ it for Michonne in exchange for a painting he'd admired down at the gallery. Michonne's going to season the steak and throw in some roast potatoes and red wine" -

\- "No doubt illegally obtained," Imogen said pointedly. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but I can't help you out. I think you'll just have to entertain Andre on your own. Three might be a crowd though."

"I don't mind three being a crowd. In fact, I told Michonne last night. But she's still refusing to leave Mike."

"Has it ever crossed your mind she might actually love Mike?"

There was a terrible silence. "Michonne loves _me_ ," Doc hissed, stooping down so he was eye-level with Imogen, "and only _me_. She feels a misplaced loyalty to Mike because he's the father of her child, that's all, nothing more."

"Doc" -

\- "I want this to end," Doc said, gesturing around him, "to stop the sneaking around. I – I want to marry Michonne, Imogen, to bring up Andre as my own son. I love her. I – I can't live without her, but I can't live like this either." He suddenly walked away from Imogen, turning his back on her again, wrapping his arms around his head.

Imogen pretended to study a Tomioka Tessai print hanging on the wall, feeling deeply uncomfortable, not quite sure how to reach Doc in this moment. "You have a cheek to talk about me walking around with my arse hanging out," she said lightly, too lightly, "not when your own wardrobe is questionable."

Doc turned around, eyes narrowing, his hand selfconsciously flying up to his throat, his tie still askew.

"So what's the deal with the disarray?" Imogen pressed.

"Mike turned up at the gallery when Michonne and I were somewhat... preoccupied," Doc said, face flushing hotly. "I had to hide in the closet. It was... farcical to say the least. Mike and Michonne were fighting – he wanted to take Andre with him up to his mother's house, but Michonne wouldn't let him. So he left, and I did as well, but in a state of disarray as you so astutely observed."

Imogen just nodded, thinking it strange Michonne wouldn't let Mike take his own son up to his mother's, before dismissing the thought. "Well, you're missing a sock," she said, gesturing to his trouser leg which had ridden up his now bare ankle, before turning and leaving the room, slamming the door shut behind her.


	3. There's A Mountain Waiting For Me

**There's A Mountain Waiting For Me**

"You can keep that dress if you want."

Imogen turned around, startled by the sound of Michonne's voice, only to see the older woman standing in the doorway, an apron tied around her waist. "Thanks," Imogen said, turning back to the mirror, resuming finishing applying fire engine red lipstick to her full mouth. "But are you sure? It's Gucci after all."

"I prefer my clothes to have colour," Michonne said dryly, gesturing to Imogen's black strapless dress, "and I don't have the necessary cleavage that dress demands either."

Imogen just shot a wry glance over her shoulder at Michonne, before stowing away the lipstick in her make-up bag, zipping it shut. "How do I look?" she said, doing a dramatic twirl, flicking her black hair back as she span.

Michonne raised an eyebrow, always never quite sure how to describe Imogen, her high cheekbones clashing with the narrow contours of her heartshaped face, giving her a decided chin. She had a beaky nose and buck teeth, but somehow her irregular features combined to create something strangely striking, the odd attraction further emphasized by her voluptuous figure. "You look...right," Michonne said thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side, "especially where you're placed, the mirror reflecting the room behind you. It's an interesting composition."

"I'm asking you how I look as a person, not as a painting," Imogen said, rolling her eyes. "But I'll suppose I'll settle for looking 'right'."

"You go, girl," Michonne said sarcastically, before drifting over to the fireplace, her dark gaze drawn as ever to the katana hanging over the marble mantelpiece. "Are you sure some steak and red wine can't tempt you to stay?" she said, turning to face Imogen, repinning a braid back in place as she did. "You'd be in more convivial company at least. The crowd Terry runs with are asses to put it kindly."

"I'll take my chances," Imogen said smartly, going over to Doc's restored vintage record player, before putting on an old jazz tune. "I'm meant to be in Albany having a good time," she continued, swaying slightly to the old strains, "so I'm bloody well going to. Getting pissed is at least better than playing laser tag or taking a trip to the Wetherbee Planetarium."

"Hey, don't mock the planetarium," Michonne mock reprimanded, "you should at least love the name alone."

Imogen just hummed to herself, trying and failing to put her tangled thoughts in order, to set aside what the world had become. "Doc said you wanted me to watch Andre," she then said, tiredly taking a seat, not bothering to ask how Michonne would pay her, since money was almost worthless, depending on where it changed hands, Doc stretching his stipend to breaking point on the black market, "which either means you're insane or desperate."

"I'm the latter unfortunately," Michonne said with a heavy sigh, "if I want to bring the business back from the brink, I can't do it with a toddler around my neck, as much I'd like to. It's just me and Heda at the gallery, and to be honest, I don't know how the two of us can keep it from going under. But I've decided I'm going to damn try, even if I have to sell paintings in the street."

"There's nobody to sell them to," Imogen pointed out, "half the population is either dead or dying, and the other half is being kept under house arrest."

"I'm still going to try," Michonne said coldly, "if people are still holding parties and getting pissed as you put it, people will still buy paintings."

"Everything is either closed or closing down," Imogen said irritably, "so you really should have shut the gallery ages ago. I'm surprised the army haven't made you. You know how hot and heavy they are on the subject of the spreading of infection in public places."

"I know how to wash my hands," Michonne said, raising her eyes up to the ceiling, "I don't need some GI Joe to give me a lesson on hygiene. But as long as the area isn't put under quarantine, I'll keep the gallery open."

"Well, you'll probably have more success trading pictures for porterhouse steak," Imogen said, stifling a yawn, "than actual selling. The days of dimes are over. Even if you paid me cash for babysitting, I'd need to hit up the black market to spend it, and they're robbing people blind. Trading is the new currency, Michonne. I mean, I just swapped a pair of high heels for a new lipstick earlier on, some sister of that bitch up the stairs. Everyone's bartering the most stupidest of items."

"You included."

"I ran out of lipstick," Imogen said stiffly, "so there you go."

Michonne just nodded, half amused, half annoyed at Imogen at being concerned about lipstick of all things at the end of the world. The gallery was meant to be Michonne's livelihood, but she was barely keeping her household afloat as it was, illegally buying on the black market to get by, refusing to live hand to mouth on the almost starvation rations the army issued, not wanting to think about what would happen when she couldn't keep her head above water anymore. Telling Doc she could handsomely bribe Imogen into babysitting had been a remark made to save face, to imply she was still a woman of means, rather than a woman who went without.

"You know, you wouldn't need a babysitter if you'd let Mike take Andre round to his mother's," Imogen then said, carefully watching Michonne's face for her reaction, having suspected there was a greater reason behind her refusal.

"I couldn't take the chance," Michonne said abruptly, "not with the roadblocks the military are springing on everyone. Mike could get caught in an infected part of town or anything."

"But you take Andre out everywhere with you."

"Yeah, because _I'd_ be with him if something like that went down. There's a difference."

"What difference?"

"I'm his mother."

"So? Mike is his father."

"You really want to know why I didn't let Mike take Andre?" Michonne snapped, face suddenly furious. "It's because Terry happened to enlighten me that Mike was brokering a major drug-deal, that's why, and he had the gall to lie to me" -

\- "Wait, why would he take Andre with him to a drug-deal?" Imogen cut across her, confused.

"Vehicles are always being stopped and searched by soldiers," Michonne said, running her hand down the side of her face, "but I've noticed if there's a screaming kid or so in the car, the search is very short, if nonexistent, and Andre is a bonafide screamer, you know that."

Imogen studied Michonne, thinking it just typical of Mike to take advantage of the army's idiosyncrasies. "Does Doc know?" she queried, knowing full well he didn't.

"No, and he isn't going to," Michonne said dangerously, "it would just give him further ammunition against Mike."

"Maybe Mike's shooting himself in the foot regardless."

"It's none of your concern."

"You can't defend a man like Mike."

"He's Andre's father."

"And you're Andre's mother. You just said there was a difference."

Michonne looked away, half closing her eyes, silence falling between them.

"You love Mike, don't you?" Imogen then said quietly. "That's why you won't leave him."

Michonne exhaled sharply, before bowing her head. "I... I love John, I really do," Michonne said brokenly, "but me and Mike... we have a child, a life together, a life that existed long before John came on the scene. I... I can't just walk away from it."

Imogen looked at Michonne for a long moment, before rising to her feet, tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear. "Can I borrow your leather jacket?" she asked brightly, too brightly, deliberately changing the subject.

"Sure, it's next door," Michonne said tiredly, heading into the kitchen again, "just remember curfew starts in twenty minutes time. You have to be indoors by then."

As if on cue, Terry honked his car horn outside, the signal for Imogen to make her escape. "Don't worry," Imogen said, making for the doorway, "curfew's covered."

"I could pay you in make-up," Michonne said suddenly, slowing to a stop, rapidly deciding she may as well as start as she meant to go on, "or whatever you fancied - within reason. If you don't want money, we can trade your time instead."

"I'd actually prefer money," Imogen admitted, "but again, with the way the black market is, I'd just be broke. You know how it is yourself."

"All too well actually," Michonne agreed, thinking of the exorbitant amount she'd spent on acquiring two boxes of toothpaste. "But needs must, huh?"

"All those black market racketeers, they're storing up fortunes," Imogen said bitterly, "just waiting for the world to get well. Maybe the military have the right idea after all."

"What, starving us into submission?" Michonne said, raising an eyebrow. "If the flu doesn't finish us off, our empty stomachs will."

"At least we still have electricity – if only intermittently," Imogen said, gesturing carelessly to the ornate light bracket, "and hot water. There's something to be said about small mercies."

"Until they're taken from us," Michonne said quietly, before turning and leaving Imogen on her own.

 _If I only knew the answer_  
 _And if all our days are numbered_  
 _Then why do I keep counting..._


	4. Innocence Lost

**Innocence Lost**

"Nice dress," Terry observed with some surprise as Imogen slid into the front seat of his sports car, throwing her handbag onto the dashboard, "and even nicer jacket."

"What can I say?" Imogen said lightly, forcing herself to ignore the way Terry's gaze had drifted downwards to her plunging neckline, setting aside her second thoughts over accompanying him to the party. "Michonne has good taste."

"Oh, so that explains your sudden sense of style," Terry teased, finally raising his gaze to hers. "Usually you're walking around with your ass out, Imogen from the block."

Imogen just rolled her eyes. "I hope there's hard liquor where you're taking me," she said as Terry sped down the street, the wind blowing her black hair back, "because I bloody need it."

"Who doesn't?" Terry acknowledged abruptly, all good humour suddenly gone. "But if you want to cure your ills, I have a little something that will do the trick better than" -

\- "Thanks but no thanks," Imogen said just as abruptly. "I don't want to start down that road."

"The trip is worth the journey."

"I said I don't do that shit, alright?"

"Sure, fine," Terry snapped, "means all the more for me."

Imogen just narrowed her eyes, before leaning over, switching the radio on. "Is there not a decent station?" she complained as she flicked through emergency bulletin after emergency bulletin. "It's just all this flu outbreak crap."

"Tell me about it," Terry agreed irritably, "I can't get down to my favourite jam anymore."

Imogen finally conceded defeat, switching the radio off. "How are you running your car?" she asked suddenly, startling Terry. "Fuel's rationed. I thought you wouldn't want to waste it on pleasure jaunts."

"What better way to waste it?" Terry said, brow furrowing. "You know how I get the fuel, same way I get everything nowadays, under the table."

Imogen bit her lip. "I'm trying to think ahead," she said reluctantly, "how we're all going to get by. I heard talk they're going to stop the food stamps for foreign nationals. Doc is still somehow getting his stipend, though God knows that could end any time, and Michonne drives him about ever since the army shut down the public transport system, but their little set-up can't last much longer, can it? My whole shebang is all but up in the air, but if Doc goes down, everything goes down."

"I'm sure a girl like you can find something to do," Terry said carelessly, "it's not over, until it's O.V.E.R, you know?"

"Michonne offered me a babysitting stint," Imogen admitted uneasily, "watching Andre while she works, but I wouldn't be paid in cash; I'd be trading my time instead."

"If you're looking for cold hard cash, then, in that case, I don't know if Michonne will be much help," Terry said slowly, "not with the way the gallery's going under. If she can't give you greenbacks... I mean, you know I help out when I can, but at the end of the day, my hands are tied. If you have the cash, I have the connections, but I can't keep affording to give out charity." He shot her a pointed glance, his gaze deliberately travelling downwards once more, dwelling on her plunging neckline for a long moment before turning his attention to the road ahead again.

"Well, in that case, I might as well just trade my time," Imogen said coolly, deliberately folding her arms across her chest, once again wishing herself elsewhere, "at least I could claw some sort of competence that way."

"Needs must, man," Terry said, shrugging his shoulders, "it would help Michonne at least, especially when Mike is refusing to put his hand in his pocket."

"He must be making money with the drug-deals though."

"Enough to set him up in style, especially with that set of wheels he's driving," Terry said, shaking his head again, "it eats fuel like fuck. All his greenbacks go on that rather than his lady."

"Why doesn't Michonne just leave him?"

"Hey," Terry snapped, gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, "I know what's going down between Doc and Michonne, but it's not enough to break up a family for. Mike's had his own indiscretions, so I think he figures Michonne is entitled to hers as long as she comes back to his bed at the end of the day, like he comes back to hers."

Imogen exhaled sharply, not knowing what to say to this, if she could say anything at all.

"Can we stop talking all this heavy shit, please?" Terry then said, glaring at her. "We're meant to be having a good time."

"Sure, whatever," Imogen agreed, sinking back in her seat, her heart sinking at the same time.

* * *

Imogen leaned against the grand piano, nursing a glass of Scotch, feeling like a fish out of water. All evening, she'd trailed after Terry, who'd impatiently introduced her to his friends, most of them addressing themselves to her cleavage rather than her face, men and women alike. Upon hearing she cleaned houses for a living, Imogen too slow to think of fibbing, she had been left largely alone. Terry's friends were middle to upper class, involved in the arts or having connections to commerce, the host of the party in possession of a prominent position in Albany's political arena, his wealth subtly reflected in their refined surroundings.

Shortly after midnight, people had begun to pair off, removing themselves to one of the many rooms discreetly available for such use. After ignoring her almost all evening, Terry had turned the charm on, trying to talk Imogen into indulging in some amorous activity, again offering her something illegal to loosen her up. After Imogen had angrily rebuffed him, Terry had just shrugged his shoulders, before turning his attentions to a beautiful Asian girl, whom he was now wooing with sweet whispers and wandering hands.

Scoffing, Imogen took a sip of Scotch, her eye catching that of an older man's across the room, his slicked back silver hair and exquisitely tailored white shirt silently speaking of prestige and wealth. He raised his own glass to Imogen, who inclined her head, aping those around her, knowing what was coming next. As predicted, he came over, signaling one of his friends to follow, a younger man with designer black-framed glasses and long dark hair tied back in a pony-tail.

"Hi," the older man said, leaning against the grand piano, "Imogen, isn't it?"

"Imogen from England?" the pony-tailed man hazarded, gesturing to her with a wide sweep of a beringed hand.

"The one and the only," Imogen acknowledged, taking another sip of Scotch, needing it.

"Terry's ravishing piece of rough," the older man said lightly, his grey gaze travelling over her, "you clean houses, yes?"

"That I do."

A long silence followed in the wake of her words, Imogen glancing around her, starting to wish she'd stayed for steak and red wine, just as Michonne had suggested.

"Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners, I'm Simon, and this is Francis," the older man said, holding out his hand to Imogen, who hesitated before taking it, "we met earlier."

"Oh," Imogen said, not really interested, each face having faded into the other.

"How are you enjoying Hal's party?" Francis asked, straightening his spectacles with the tip of his finger, Imogen taking a moment to recall Hal was the politician. "Are you finding the company stimulating?"

"I would with another Scotch down my gullet," Imogen said coldly, Francis frantically nodding his head, before taking her glass, going to refill it.

Simon studied Imogen, an amused smile playing on his lips, irritating Imogen.

"What's so funny?" she snapped, glancing over her shoulder, only to see Terry cutting up cocaine with his credit card atop the gleaming surface of the grand piano, the beautiful Asian girl hovering at his elbow, eying the white powder avidly.

"C'mon," Simon said, steering her away, "I don't want to witness the violation of such a beautiful instrument."

Imogen allowed him to escort her over to the windowseat, all the while feeling Simon's stare boring into her back, wondering how long it would take for him to make his move.

"How are you appreciating the apocalypse, then?" Simon asked, sitting down beside her, making Imogen discreetly inch away from him. "You're certainly dressed for destruction."

"I'm glad to be ornamenting the end of days," Imogen said flippantly. "But other than that, I'm not really okay about the shit hitting the fan."

"Would you be okay with accompanying me and Francis to the master bedroom?" Simon suggested, going in for the kill. "I heard the views are spectacular at sunrise."

Imogen looked away, biting her lip. "You don't waste time, do you?" she said. "Some small talk then _wham_ , straight for the jugular."

"We don't have time to waste," Simon said, shrugging his shoulder, "so I reason we should make most of the time we have left. Aside from the small talk, Francis is topping up your drink and I paid you a compliment, so we've done the social niceties."

"How considerate of you."

"I've been watching you all evening, Imogen," Simon continued, unperturbed, "you're a strangely compelling woman."

"Strangely compelling how?"

"You should be beautiful but you're not. Your face is flawed and you're almost overweight. But there's potential. You have... energy."

"Ah, here's Francis with my drink," Imogen exclaimed, taking it from Francis's hand, done with the bullshit. "I have energy, then?" she said sweetly, turning to Simon, before slowly tipping her drink over his head. "Feel the flow, Simon."

"What the fuck are you doing!?" Francis spat, leaping backwards, flinging up his hands. "Are you insane!?"

"I've been around, _pal_ ," Imogen hissed, stooping down so she was eye level with Francis, slamming her glass down on a nearby table as she did, "but there are levels and limits. I don't fancy lowering my standards."

"You fucking little bitch," Simon said in disbelief, still standing there, dripping Scotch.

"Fuck you too," Imogen snapped, before turning on her heel and leaving.

"Don't turn your back on me," Simon snapped, grabbing her arm, forcing Imogen to face him. "This isn't a game, girl," he hissed, tightening his grip around her wrist as she struggled in vain to break free, "we're all here for a reason."

"And I'm not interested in your reason," Imogen snapped back, fighting the panic beginning to paralyze her.

"So they all say," Francis smirked. "Don't worry, I'm sure Terry will have a little chemical something to coax you round."

But as he spoke, there was a sudden scream from the conservatory next door, everybody in the music room glancing up at the connecting doorway, unaware all that they knew was ending.

* * *

Another scream shattered the shocked silence, everybody glancing at one another, faces half fearful, half confused.

"Somebody's having a good time," somebody said from behind Imogen and the others, trying to be clever, but then the scream suddenly became screams, making Simon slacken his grip on Imogen's arm, his face suddenly frightened.

"I think it's time we took our leave," he fired at Francis, only to freeze as a figure filled the doorway, standing at a half crouch. "What the" - he began, only for the figure to suddenly lunge forwards, heading straight in their direction with unnatural speed.

Simon span on his heel, fleeing, Francis too frozen with fear to move, the room erupting into chaos, a second figure joining the first, attacking the beautiful Asian girl of before, sinking its teeth into her throat from behind, Terry taking off, abandoning Imogen to her own fate. She just stood there, not understanding, not even when the first figure was almost on top of her, Imogen catching a glimpse of blue white eyes and bloodied blonde hair before finally fleeing, trying and failing to stumble to safety in her high heels.

Collapsing in the doorway to the conservatory, she risked a glance over her shoulder, only to see her assailant had become distracted, falling upon Francis instead, tearing at his flesh with frenzied hands, dragging him down onto the floor. There was the sound of smashing glass, Imogen dimly realizing people were trying to escape through the windows, the knowledge forcing her forwards, pushing through the throng, elbowing everyone aside.

Staggering through a side-door, she found herself in a hallway, only to see a man wrestling with a petite blonde woman, who was snarling, teeth bizarrely bared.

"What are you doing, Mia!?" the man cried, holding her back with surprising difficulty. "What the hell's gotten into you!?"

Imogen backed away, only to hear a growling from above, making her head snap up, seeing a stooped figure at the top of the stairs, vaguely recognizing it as a man from earlier, Terry again introducing him, the man's distinctive pink velvet blazer the only thing that had made any impression on Imogen. His face had been torn off, his lips hanging like a loose thread, the sight making Imogen's legs suddenly collapse under her.

At the same time she struck the ground, the woman called Mia suddenly sank her teeth into the man's hand, making him scream, the sound strangely high-pitched. Sirens were screeching, drawing dangerously closer, then there was several gunshots, each one echoing into the other, making the screams become a chorus of cacophony. Blindly, Imogen started crawling in the direction of the dark kitchen, her hands slapping off the black and white tiles, her palms becoming covered in crimson.

Choking down a scream as she collided with a corpse, she clumsily clambered over it, oblivious to its eyes flickering awake. There were further gunshots, accompanied by the sound of stomping feet, Imogen barely registering the army's arrival, only intent on escape, flinging herself through the back door and into what wreckage remained of the world outside.

 _In the land of gods and monsters_  
 _I was an angel_  
 _Living in the garden of evil_  
 _Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed..._


	5. I'll Be Strong, I'll Be Wrong

**I'll Be Strong, I'll Be Wrong**

As dawn exiled the dark, Imogen limped through the trees, dragging one foot after the other, having lost one high heel during her wild flight, before ridding herself of the other as she ran. She didn't know where she was, only that she needed to be as far away as possible from the nightmare that was haunting her wake. But as the sound of snarling shattered the silence, making her head snap up, Imogen realised too late that the nightmare was just beginning.

Emerging from the undergrowth was a young woman around her own age, wearing a torn white vest soaked with blood, filmy eyes filled with ravenous intent. Imogen slowed to a stop, heart in throat, almost choking her. The woman staggered towards her, clawing at the air with hands that were nothing more than mishappen stumps, making Imogen take a trembling step back.

"No," Imogen whimpered, shaking her head, "no!" Backing further away, it was only for her foot to slip underneath her, making Imogen lose her balance, sending her sprawling to the ground. Weeping, she tried and failed to get up again, her hands scrabbling wildly for traction, the heel of her hand scraping against the thick tree branch that had tripped her up. For a long moment, she half lay there, waiting for death to claim her, the last of her sanity stretched to breaking point. "No," Imogen whispered to herself, fingers closing unsteadily around the branch almost at their own volition, " _no_."

With the last of her fading strength, she forced herself to her feet, turning at the same time, and then she was bringing the branch down on the woman's skull, over and over again, brains and blood matter exploding above her like fireworks. "No!" she screamed, kicking the woman's now still corpse. "No!"

"Imogen?"

She whirled around at the sound of Terry's trembling voice, the shock making her drop the branch, only to see him emerge from behind a tree, the back of his white shirt shredded by dead hands, Terry having torn himself out of their cold grip. He had barely managed to escape the building, fleeing into the night, only to now accidentally come across Imogen, stumbling out of his own nightmare and into hers.

"Oh my God, you killed her," Terry said in disbelief, staring at the woman's caved in skull, "you goddamn _killed_ her!"

"I killed it," Imogen said hysterically, "I killed _it!_ " Before she could react, her stomach suddenly heaved, and she threw up over the forest floor, violently retching and sobbing at the same time, vomit flecking the front of her filthy dress. But Terry just stood there, shock giving way to disgust instead, revulsion spreading across his face, making something snap inside Imogen. "You _prick!_ " she screamed, suddenly striking him. Terry staggered back with a shocked cry, hand flying to his nose, Imogen doubling up, grabbing her own hand, trying and failing to stop the shooting pain sparking from her knuckles and up her arm.

"What the hell didth you do thath for!?" Terry said, clutching his now bleeding nose, muffling his voice.

"You fucking left me to rot, that's why!" Imogen screeched, still cradling her hand.

"I came bacth fhor you!"

"Really!?"

"I'm here, amthn't I?"

"You're only interested in saving your own arse," Imogen spat, "so don't try and act the noble hero. You're a bloody coward."

Terry just stared at her again, lowering his hand to his side, hatred suddenly flaring up in his heart. "I didn't exactly see you rushing to my rescue," he said with some difficulty, wiping his aching nose with the sleeve of his shirt. "Or anybody's for that matter."

Imogen half turned away from him, sudden hot shame coursing through her, remembering how she'd reacted, sheer selfish instinct taking over. "Doesn't change the fact you're a fucking prick," she snapped, "taking me to that shit-hole in the first place, just to pass me around like a piece of meat. "

"What does all that matter now!?" Terry yelled, flinging his hands up in the air. "It's all over. Everything's goddamn over!"

"Oh, it matters," Imogen said sarcastically, roughly wiping her running nose with the back of her hand, "you took me there under false pretenses, to pimp me out like a prostitute. You're a user, Terry, you _use_ – drugs, people, anything and anyone."

"What, like the way you're planning to use me?" Terry retorted. "You said you were sinking – that if Doc went down, everything did. You need me, because I've got the cash and the contacts" -

\- "Fuck you," Imogen hissed, "fuck you and your fucking so called _contacts_ _"_ _-_

– "Screw you too," Terry hissed back. "I'm sick of Michonne running to me every two seconds, asking me to help you and her bastard of a boyfriend. I'm done, you hear me, goddamn done!"

"We're all done," Imogen said, her voice cracking, turning away from him as she spoke, "completely done for."

"Yeah, whatever," Terry said, shaking his head, "I think you've just made the obvious even more obvious."

Imogen's lips curled downwards. "I didn't kill her," she then said with some difficulty, gesturing to the dead woman, the sickening sight making Terry avert his eyes. "I – I think someone else did."

"What do you mean someone else did?" Terry said, looking at her like she was mad. "You did kill her – you goddamn bashed her brains in!"

"She – she was already dead," Imogen choked out, "like those people back at the house."

Terry just stared at her. "They weren't dead," he said slowly, his voice impatient but oddly strained, almost like he was arguing with a child, "they can't be walking and dead, Imogen."

"You saw them!" Imogen snapped, jabbing an accusing finger at him. "You saw the state they were in! Nobody can walk around with their throats torn out, Terry!"

Terry wrapped his arms around his head, struggling to hold himself together. "I don't know what I saw," he said through gritted teeth, "and neither do you."

"Oh, I know what I saw," Imogen spat. "I know what I saw here, and I did what I had to damn do."

"Whatever," Terry said again, lowering his shaking hands to his side, "let's just get the hell out of hell."

* * *

Doc lay on his back, arm slung across his forehead, Andre lying spread-eagled out between him and Michonne, who was alternately reading and fiddling with the loose threads of Doc's t-shirt she had on. The intimate meal for two of the evening before, had become a food fight for three, Andre interrupting, spectacularly ruining the romance. With Mike then texting Michonne that he would be so called spending the night at his mother's, Doc having his doubts on that score, Michonne had spent the night in turn in Doc's bed, Andre gatecrashing their sleep at about six in the morning, before falling fast asleep himself, Doc and Michonne exchanging amused glances above his curly head.

Repressing a yawn, Doc leaned over, picking up the remote before aiming it at the large flatscreen television hanging upon the wall opposite. For a moment nothing happened, Doc rolling his eyes, expecting another electricity cut, but then the screen flickered into life, Doc sinking back into the pillows propping him up, flicking through the various channels, suppressing another yawn as he did.

But it was just the same old stories, the ever increasing violence that was spreading through the cities as society shut down, people rioting and rebelling; fresh cases of the flu virus infecting and isolating, leading to further areas being occupied by the army. Exhaling sharply, he paused at an old _Friends_ re-run before switching over to CNN, turning the volume up slightly, making Andre stir.

Doc patted Andre gently on the head, his tired gaze travelling over the ticker tape playing at the bottom of the screen, the latest update being a vicious attack perpetrated by a homeless woman on two people from a Christian street team who had been trying to offer her help. Such stories had haunted the news since the start of the outbreak; those who barely scraped out an existence in the underbelly of civilization attacking those so called existed above them.

Just as he was about to change the channel again, the camera cut to the news anchorwoman, her face pale and strained, Doc straightening up at the mention of riots breaking out in Albany, Michonne looking up from her book, every inch of her suddenly on the alert. She only relaxed when the anchorwoman named an area on the other side of the city, but Doc wasn't reassured, pulling out his phone, his thumb hitting speed-dial, connecting him instantly to Imogen, only for the call to ring out into oblivion before cutting to voicemail.

Then the television suddenly went blank, indicating the electricity had been cut off again, making Doc set the remote down with a heavy sigh.

"Imogen will be okay," Michonne said, glancing at him, reading Doc like the book she still held in her hands, "Terry too."

"She hasn't come back yet," Doc said tersely, "so that means she might not be alright."

"The riots are on the other side of the city."

"So?"

"So it means Imogen is nowhere near where they are."

Doc looked away, all but conceding temporary defeat, jaw tightening.

"Can you watch Andre?" Michonne then asked, marking her page with a postcard depicting one of Degas' ballerinas. "Heda and I want to get a headstart on the inventory."

"Ah, that immortal inventory," Doc said sarcastically, "you've been attempting that inventory ever since I can remember."

"Well, if a certain stubbled Englishman agreed to babysit, I would finish said inventory," Michonne said seductively, leaning over Andre, making to run her hand along Doc's shirtless chest.

"Begone," Doc said, pretending to slap away her hand before taking it, "your womanly wiles are wasted on me."

"Really?" Michonne said, raising an eyebrow. "Last night is telling me otherwise."

"I have to meet Emily," Doc said pointedly, pressing his lips to her knuckles, "the cupboards aren't going to restock themselves."

"Emily, Terry's contact?"

"The very one," Doc said tiredly, letting go of her hand, only to swing Andre up onto his shoulder. "You're a parrot now, boy," he fired at Andre, who just regarded him sleepily, clutching a hank of Doc's dark hair instead.

"You seem to be meeting Emily an awful lot," Michonne said as she got out of the bed, "should I be worried?"

"Your tights are currently getting up close and personnel with my pot plants," Doc pointed out as she started searching for her scattered clothes, "but no, you shouldn't be. I'm only selling my manly body – Emily is compensating me in coffee beans."

"Oh, shut up," Michonne snapped, flinging a handful of Lego bricks at him, just missing him.

"Your wish is not my command," Doc drawled as he set Andre down, "not unless you can pay for the privilege."

* * *

"Another one of your lame dogs, Terry?" Anya drawled, glancing at Imogen who was sitting on the draining board, her hand shaking as she lit up a purloined cigarette. Imogen had borrowed both Anya and Terry's mobiles to contact Doc, having left her handbag at the mansion, but every call had ended in failure, the signal suddenly down, making it pointless to try and reach Michonne instead.

Terry glared at Anya, her sarcastic observation getting on his last nerve. Anya was the erstwhile girlfriend of one of his flat-mates, having warmed Terry's own bed on occasion, his only use for her. Otherwise, he didn't care for Anya's company, but desperation had driven him to her house, the crumbling building close to where he and Imogen had been wandering the road, a bohemian bungalow that always stank of incense and hashish.

"You okay, hinny?" Anya then asked Imogen, sounding genuinely concerned, making Imogen glance up in surprise.

"I'll live," Imogen said tersely, taking a long drag.

"What happened to your shoes, Cinderella?" Anya asked curiously, her mismatched gaze travelling over Imogen's torn dress and ripped tights, dwelling on her make-up streaked face and tangled hair, the sight making Anya's brow furrow further.

"The clock struck midnight," Imogen said coldly, flicking her ash into the stained sink.

"Enough with the inquisition," Terry snapped, taking off his own torn shirt, revealing a ripped six pack, the sight making Imogen raise an eyebrow despite everything. "Is Ben home?" he asked, glancing at the haphazard pyramid of cocaine piled up on the kitchen counter alongside a battered leather jacket, all tell-tale signs of Anya's erratic younger brother.

"Why, what's your business with Bender?" Anya said, leaning against the cooker, pushing a lock of pink streaked blonde hair out of her eyes.

"I want to raid his wardrobe," Terry said, dipping his finger into the pile of cocaine, "even if his taste in fashion is questionable."

" _What_ is _with_ the 'dragged through a hedge' look you two have got going on?" Anya pressed, refusing to let the subject drop. "What the hell happened, Ter?"

Terry tasted the cocaine, licking the tip of his finger, his face instantly scrunching up in disgust. "Fuck," he spat, "that's nothing but washing powder and flour."

"What happened, hinny?" Anya asked Imogen, ignoring Terry. "C'mon, you can confess. We're all girls together, yah?"

Imogen just looked at her, not sure what Anya's angle was. "Do you have a shower I can use?" she asked instead, voice cracking. "I'd like to get cleaned up."

"I'm using it first," Terry snapped, "so back off."

"Why don't you just fuck off!" Imogen snapped back, Anya throwing herself between them, hands held up.

"Hey, no fighting, chickadees," she said, slurring her words slightly, "there's more than enough showers to go around."

"The ensuite is screwed," Terry reminded her, "after your brother trashed the joint."

"Bender isn't here," Anya said coyly. "Want me to take a look at your nose? It looks a bit sore." She shot a significant glance at Imogen's scraped knuckles, raising her eyebrows at the same time in almost silent challenge.

Terry's jaw tightened, his ego not wanting to be reminded of Imogen's assault. "Where is Ben?" he reiterated, feeling like he was banging his head off a brick wall.

"I think he headed over to Tori's as soon as curfew lifted," Anya said distractedly, examining a split end, "he was all sixes and sevens last night after that massive row with her over the truck."

"Don't mention that vehicular disaster," Terry said, recalling the monstrosity of a truck her brother doted on, making him remember the loss of his own car, still parked at the mansion, Terry having no intention of heading back into hell to retrieve it. Exhaling sharply, he then left the room, Imogen watching him go with hooded eyes, Anya observing this with great interest.

"You tapping that?" Anya said, startling Imogen. "I mean, I am or I was. I am a goddamn slave to that six-pack."

"No, I'm not," Imogen said abruptly, flinging her cigarette stub into the overflowing wastebin.

"I saw you looking, sweetheart."

"You saw nothing."

"Oh," Anya said, losing interest. "You're English?" she said suddenly, leaning against the cooker again. "I love London, I do."

"I'm from Kent," Imogen said, repressing the urge to roll her eyes, even as Anya's irritating presence was barely keeping the demons at bay.

"What do you do for a living, Imogen of Kent, England, Britain, Europe, Earth, the Universe?" Anya reeled off, getting on Imogen's last nerve.

"I'm a cleaner."

"Well, if you ever need a job, just see me," Anya said, tapping the end of her tip-tilted nose, "this place is baksheesh."

Imogen just raised an eyebrow, knowing an answer would equal an insult.

"All that blood yours, then?" Anya asked, her gaze travelling over Imogen again. "Take a literal blood-bath, did we?"

"What do you care?" Imogen said coolly.

"Because you've just rocked up to my door, looking like you've just stepped out of an abattoir, that's why," Anya said equally as coolly, her abrupt change in manner startling Imogen again. "So maybe you should tell me what the score is, huh?"

Imogen slid off the draining board, eyes burning like blue fire against the backdrop of her bloodless face. "Just keep your doors locked," she said quietly, something in her face making Anya take a step back, "that's all you need to know."

* * *

Doc flicked up the collar of his navy peacoat, ramming his hands further into his pockets, his dark gaze becoming drawn to the battered Jeep parked further down the sidewalk, a red-haired woman sitting hunched over on its hood, smoking a cigarette. Quickening his step, he glanced around him before jerking his chin at the woman, who flicked the cigarette butt aside, Doc stepping over the smouldering ash.

"You're early, Emily," he observed as he slid into the front seat, leaving the Jeep door open, "haven't you heard about being fashionably late?"

"Time is money, my friend," Emily said smartly, getting up from the hood, before turning and leaning against the Jeep roof instead, pushing herself back and forth with gloved hands, "and talkin' of..." Her voice trailed off, leaving a suggestive silence, making Doc roll his eyes.

"Here," he said, withdrawing his wallet, "you bleed me dry, you know that?"

"A girl's gotta get by."

"Empire-building, are we?"

Emily just shrugged her shoulders, watching as Doc pulled out a wad of fifty dollar bills, signifying a significant portion of his savings, his stipend having been long since spent. She was one of Terry's contacts, trading on the black market, exploiting those could afford what she was offering. She had a sideline in supplying luxuries, but those items that were becoming increasingly difficult to acquire, even for Emily. Her main moneyspinner was necessities, the mundane and monotonous, turning a pretty profit out of providing things like toilet paper and cereal.

"Have you sourced some Diet Coke yet?" Doc said, counting out the money.

"You and your caffiene addiction, huh?"

"Don't toy with my tastebuds."

"Fine," Emily said, holding her hands up, "I haven't got the gear. Shit's becomin' rarer than the Holy Grail, man."

"Can you heal my heart with some coffee, then?" Doc hazarded, handing her the roll of notes, hiding his bitterness at having to part from his hard-earned money.

"Only instant."

"Well, needs must when the devil drives."

Emily just smiled cryptically, snapping an elastic band around the roll of notes, taking a sadistic satisfaction in the sound.

"Delivery same time and place?" Doc then said, stowing away his wallet.

"Yeah, but it's gonna be my last delivery for a while," Emily said, tucking the wad in her bra-strap, "these riots have been disruptin' trade, and truth be told, Albany's gettin' too hot to handle now. The army's everywhere – I can't even blink and they're there, comin' down on me like a duck on a June bug."

"Well, I'll just find another felon, then," Doc said dryly. "Fortunately for me, Terry has more than just dipped his toe into the criminal underworld."

"Everybody's shuttin' down shop," Emily said abruptly. "Anyone with an ounce of sense is headin' outta town."

Doc just stared at her, ignoring the sudden chill that shot down his spine. "Well, that's just great, isn't it?" he snapped. "How the hell am I supposed to put food on my table?"

"Not my problem, pretty boy," Emily snapped back, "now get your ass out of my ride. A girl's got places to be."

Doc got out of the Jeep, slamming the door behind him, Emily driving off like a demon, the sound of the screeching tyres catching everybody's attention, including some soldiers standing outside an abandoned laundrette. Ducking his head, Doc crossed the road, hunching his shoulders as he went, always aware of the dangers of attracting too much attention. As he swiftly strode past a now closed car salesroom, his head snapped up at the sudden sound of screaming, the noise renting the air in half.

Up ahead, people were being dragged into the back of a cattle truck, soldiers shoving them in, showing no mercy to those who couldn't manage the steep climb. A woman carrying a crying baby in her arms, tripped and fell, a soldier ramming the butt of his rifle into her side, making her shout out in agony, curling her body into a ball, trying to shield the child as the soldier struck her again, another soldier sinking his boot into her spine, hurling abuse at her head as he did, before spitting on her.

Acting on instinct, Doc rushed forwards, only for somebody to grab his arm, hauling him back, dragging him down an alleyway. Struggling, Doc tried to break free, both he and his unknown assailant freezing at the sound of gunfire, a man shouting, his Scottish accent suddenly silenced by further gunfire. Doc stared at his attacker, a middle-aged woman with an afro, the horror in her eyes reflected in his.

"C'mon!" she suddenly hissed, taking off down the alleyway, Doc hesitating before following, glancing over his shoulder, only to see a swell of people suddenly flooding the entrance to the alleyway, scrambling to escape the slaughter outside.

With tears blinding him, Doc followed the woman, the sight of her red Doc Martens running ahead becoming a blur. Behind him, people were yelling and screaming, pushing past him, making him stagger. A woman fell down, Doc hauling her up before she got trampled on, but she just violently shoved him aside, nearly knocking him down in turn.

"In here!" the woman with the afro yelled from a doorway, waving her arm at him, the gesture frantic.

Doc fought his way through the throng, the woman pulling him into the shelter of the doorway, Doc collapsing against the wall, feeling like he was going to throw up, his reeling mind replaying the events over and over again, only seeing the soldiers strike the woman, the sound of the baby's cries and gunfire becoming one, life and death entangled in the other.

"You don't know me, do you?" the woman said, making Doc look blankly at her, seeing only a stranger. "I know Michonne," she continued, her voice cracking, "she sells some of my sister's sculptures – my step-son did an internship at the art gallery last summer."

Again, Doc just looked at her blankly. "What was _that?_ " he then choked out. "The soldiers – those people" -

\- "You don't wanna be one of those people," the woman said, shaking her head, "but you're gonna be with that accent of yours."

"What?"

"They're taking everyone who's not of American nationality and sending them to internment camps," the woman said, raising her voice above the racket, "tourists, asylum seekers, economic migrants – they took your passport, didn't they?"

"But _why?_ "

"Because the shit is gonna hit the fan," the woman said bluntly, "and I mean in epic style. Why do you think the army has been stockpiling all those supplies? And they sure as hell ain't gonna share them with the likes of you or anyone else that hasn't been born under the Stars and Stripes."

Doc just turned away from her, unable to face having his own words being flung back at him, refusing to face reality. He had sensed a storm was coming, but now it was here, all he wanted to do was hide under his bed like a child, cowering from the chaos.

* * *

"Ah, the interlopers," Ben or 'Bender' as he was known said, appraising Imogen and Terry, his thin lips twisting down at the corners. He was in his late twenties, his blonde hair prematurely grey, lending him a strangely aged look. He aspired to be intellectual, but was a chronic college drop-out, turning to drugs to deal with the daily monotony of life.

Imogen just ignored him as she sat on the edge of his desk, swinging her shaking legs to and fro, taking a long drag of the second cigarette Anya had slipped her from her brother's secret stash, the nicotine hitting her nerves where they needed it most.

While Terry had hijacked the shower, Imogen had hijacked his phone, repeatedly trying and failing to reach Doc again. Once Terry was finished cleaning up, she had all but ran to the shower, wanting to rid herself of all traces of what she had endured. Anya had kindly left out some clean clothes for her; a faded blue and white checked shirt, clean underwear and ripped jeans, teamed with battered tennis shoes and a pair of holey socks, Imogen hastily donning everything, too far gone to be fastidious about fashion.

"How's it going, Benjamin?" Terry said scathingly, tugging down the denim shirt he'd taken from Ben's closet. However, Ben was smaller and scrawnier than Terry, and the shirt felt uncomfortably tight, Terry having to constantly pull it down, irritating him no end.

"It's going great, Terence," Ben drawled. "You look good in that shirt – really brings out your biceps."

Terry rolled his eyes, before going over to the window, glancing out at the small wilderness that served as the garden.

"So, you're the new piece of ass in town?" Ben fired at Imogen, his contemptuous grey gaze travelling over her, obviously not impressed with what he was seeing. "I must say, Terence, you're lowering your standards."

"Screw you," Imogen said coldly, taking a long drag, "and screw your standards."

"Oh, she speaks," Ben said, looking amused against his will, the expression altering his whole face, oddly opening it up.

Imogen just ignored him again, her attention becoming drawn to a large framed photograph hanging over the fireplace. It was a stiffly posed family portrait, showing a much younger Ben and Anya sitting either side of a pretty blonde girl who looked to be in her late teens at least.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" Ben said, disliking the sight of her scrutiny and cigarette in hand.

"Who's that?" Imogen hazarded, jerking her chin at the picture, not really caring.

"Who, little Lucille?" Ben said with a shrug of a shoulder. "Little Lucy who made good whilst the rest of us ended up as whores and wastrels?"

"So says you," Anya said as she sauntered through the doorway, "but I say we're living like kings."

"So says you," Terry muttered, leaning his elbows on the sill, staring mutinously at the shed outside.

"What are you looking at?" Ben snapped, stalking over to Terry, startling him.

"I'm not looking at anything," Terry snapped back, recovering himself.

"You better not be," Ben snarled. "There's nothing to look at." Terry just looked at Ben like he was mad, Imogen not really interested, sliding off the desk instead. As she did, Ben backed away from Terry, pointing at them all, moving his arm in a half circle, before wildly gesturing between them and his eyes. "I'm watching you all," Ben said cryptically, "even as you sleep."

"Have you taken your meds, man?" Anya asked, tugging agitatedly at the leather armlet on her wrist. "You know what the doctor said about you not taking your meds" - The rest of her sentence was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming. "Negan, hinny, is that you?" Anya called out, only to receive no answer. "It's Negan," she said, sighing heavily.

"Is that bozo still bumming around here?" Terry said, looking put out. "Fucker threw out my stash."

"Maybe you shouldn't hide narcotics with the street value of thousands of dollars in a rusting old tin then," Ben sing-songed without taking a single breath.

"Negan is family," Anya said pointedly, acting as if Ben hadn't spoken, "his place is here, with us."

"Talk of the devil and he shall appear," Ben muttered as a tall and unkempt looking man stooped through the study doorway, freezing at the sight of strangers in his sanctum. "Negan," Ben boomed, startling everyone, "welcome! How is Lucy? Still sick as a dog?"

"Fuck you," the man snapped before turning and leaving, Ben flicking the middle finger at his retreating back.

"Yeah, fuck you," Anya echoed, glaring at her brother. "Leave the poor guy alone, Ben."

"I would if he goddamn left me alone," Ben snapped. "He treats this place like a fucking doss-house."

"He needs somewhere to crash" -

\- "With any luck he'll crash his car, " Ben spat, "I'm sick of him rolling up here at all hours, drinking my beer and hogging the fucking remote. He should either stay at the hospital or go home, not here!"

"Negan" -

\- "What fucking kind of name is Negan, anyways!?" Ben exclaimed, flinging up his hands, ignoring Imogen's raised eyebrows. "I wouldn't even name my dog that!"

"He was named after his grandfather," Anya said coldly, "it was his surname, and his son called his own son Negan in tribute."

"Behold Anya, Negan's biggest fucking cheerleader," Ben declaimed, "Saint fucking Cecelia" -

\- "Well, maybe if you swung by to see how Lucy was from time to time," Anya angrily cut across him, her protuberant eyes bulging even more, "and didn't leave it up to me to hold everything together" -

\- "Lucille barred me from her house," Ben yelled, making Terry flinch, "said I wasn't good enough to lick Negan's boots – the bitch deserves everything's she's got – I hope the fucking cancer kills her" -

Anya slapped him hard across the face, making Ben reel back, Terry beating a hasty retreat, Imogen echoing him. "Don't ever goddamn say something like that again," Anya hissed, looming over Ben like some spaced out avenging angel, "Lucille might have a stick up her ass but she's our _sister_."

* * *

At the art gallery, the pretence of life played on, Heda keeping an eye on Andre as Michonne went to shred some paperwork, her blank face belying the lie. Making her way down the hall, Michonne quickened her pace, tightening her grip on the pile of paper she was carrying. Stepping swiftly inside her office, she closed the door behind her with a soft click, before dumping the pile of paper on her desk and going over to the metal filing cabinet in the far corner. She slid the bottom drawer open, fingers flicking through the files inside, before peeling back the last file, revealing a small black metal box concealed out of sight.

Quickly, she then knelt down, carefully reaching behind the filing cabinet, nearly knocking over the towering pot plant she'd deliberately stationed there, her fingers finding the familiar metal of the key sellotaped to the wall. With shaking hands, she unlocked the black box, taking out the handgun and box of ammunition, loading the chamber before putting the safety on and hiding the handgun down the back of her black jeans, tucking it into her waistband, then placing the box of ammunition in her handbag.

Michonne was an advocate of being prepared for any eventuality, and upon opening the art gallery in what now felt like a lifetime ago, she'd made sure she was at least armed in case the worst should happen. With valuable paintings on the property and Michonne often working into the early hours of the morning before the opening of an exhibition, she felt vulnerable being on her own in the art gallery. Since the outbreak, and with a toddler in the vicinity, Michonne had locked the gun away, meaning it wasn't within swift reach, but the knowledge it was there had set Michonne's mind at rest when nothing else could.

The news of the riots had shaken her more than she would admit, even though there had been trouble ever since the army's occupation of Albany, people refusing to recognize martial law. But the scale of these riots surpassed any previous uprisings, the army's violent response a stark contrast to the controlled containment of before, having resolved all prior conflict relatively peacefully.

"Michonne?" Heda suddenly called from the hallway, a distinct note of panic in her voice. "You need to come here, _now_."

"What is it?" Michonne said in surprise, going into the hallway, only to see Heda frantically gesturing from the second doorway down, beckoning her into the small kitchen they shared, Michonne obeying her silent summons, brow furrowing. There was a tiny television positioned precariously on the wall bracket, Michonne glancing up at the screen as she took Andre from Heda, only to see what seemed like just another emergency news bulletin playing.

"Just wait," Heda said in response to Michonne's raised eyebrow, "and watch. Just... watch."

With a frown, Michonne turned back to the television screen, observing the news anchors argue with one another, the volume too low for her to make out what was being said. Almost immediately, the picture on the screen shifted, showing what looked like a police shootout, with a lone man surrounded by police cars and ambulances. Michonne's frown deepened, not understanding why Heda was wanting her to watch what looked like another routine news item.

Then to her shock, several shots were fired into his frame, the man falling to his knees as blood bloomed across his chest, Michonne backing away from the television as the man staggered to his feet again, before shuffling forwards, taking tortured step after step, increasingly impervious to the bullets hitting him in all directions, until one struck his skull, making him collapse onto the asphalt, finally falling still.

"What the hell was that?" Michonne whispered, turning to Heda, who had tears shining in her eyes.

"I – I don't know," Heda said, holding her hands out in almost supplication, "it's somewhere in downtown LA but" -

Michonne just turned away, unable to process what she had seen, refusing to, feeling her world starting to splinter.

"Michonne" -

\- "That's a set-up," Michonne said suddenly, rounding on Heda, "it's not real – it can't be!"

"It's on all the news stations" -

\- "Just turn the goddamn TV off," Michonne snapped, burying her face in Andre's shoulder, muffling her trembling voice.

Heda just looked at her, jaw tightening, before turning the television off. "Seeing isn't believing, then," she said quietly, setting the remote down on the counter, silently conceding defeat, "it's probably a hoax."

"It is."

"Well, at least the electricity seems to be staying on," Heda said lightly, too lightly, "which means I can kill my coffee craving. Do you fancy one? I'll be barista."

"Sure," Michonne agreed abruptly, pretending to play along, "just go easy on the beans."

Heda made a double thumbs-up sign, only to freeze as Michonne's phone suddenly went off, the sound startling them both, realising the signal had returned, if albeit briefly.

Michonne hastily handed Andre over to Heda, who just as hastily took him, balancing the little boy on her hip. "John?" Michonne said in confusion as she answered her phone, half turning away from Heda as she spoke. Heda watched Michonne's face travel through a series of expressions ranging from disbelief to worry to fear. "Okay, I'm coming back right now," Michonne then said, her voice cracking, "I'll shut the gallery up. Don't open to the door to anyone and don't leave the apartment either. Just – just wait till I come home."

As Michonne then cut the call off, Heda shifted Andre higher up her hip, face concerned. "What is it?" she asked, making Michonne glance up, looking as if she had just realised Heda was there.

"The riots are spreading," Michonne lied, recovering herself, "I think it's best we shut up shop for the day. I really don't want to get caught up in that kind of craziness, especially with Andre."

Heda studied Michonne, instantly ascertaining the older woman was lying, something in Michonne's face stopping her from challenging the lie. "Okay," she said slowly, "I suppose you'll keep the place closed until the storm blows over?"

Michonne nodded, sensing there was a separation ahead for her and Heda, the first crack of a chasm spreading. "I'll drive you over to Sara's," she said, taking Andre from Heda, painfully aware of the handgun pressing against her spine, "then I'll head back to the apartment."

"I'll just go and get my gear," Heda said, turning to leave, only to stop as Michonne suddenly grabbed her arm, making Heda glance over her shoulder in surprise.

"Take care," Michonne said quietly, trying and failing to smile, "you can never be too careful, right?"

"Right," Heda said just as quietly, and then she turned and left the kitchen, Michonne watching her go.

* * *

 _I'm alone, on my own, and that's all I know_  
 _I'll be strong, I'll be wrong, oh but life goes on_  
 _Oh I'm alone, on my own, and that's all I know…_

Imogen sat down on the back step, shoulders hunched, passing Terry's mobile between her hands. He was becoming increasingly edgy about her having it, but so far he was allowing her its use. The signal had come back briefly, only to fluctuate wildly in and out of existence, revealing an alarming amount of missed calls from Doc. At Imogen's instigation, knowing Doc would be worried over her whereabouts, Terry had reluctantly sent a text saying they were alright, but whether Doc would receive it or not, Imogen didn't know.

Curbing her craving for another cigarette, knowing Ben wouldn't take too kindly to her hitting his secret stash again, Imogen leaned her head back against the kitchen door, struggling with everything that had come to pass, leading her to the crossroads that was now her life.

Outwardly, Imogen was composed, contained, but inside she was screaming, fighting fate and failing. She couldn't hide in this crumbling house forever, but she wasn't sure what her next step was going to be, only knowing she had to watch how she made her way now. Bowing her head, she was about to get up and go inside, when the kitchen door opened, revealing Ben's brother-in-law who was balancing two beers and a plate of clumsily cut sandwiches on a garishly patterned tin tray.

"Who the hell are you?" Negan said bluntly, the kitchen door closing with a loud bang behind him, almost exiling him.

"We met earlier," Imogen said coldly, "sort of."

"You thunderbuddies with fucking Bender?" Negan said as he sat down beside her, folding his long legs up like a concertina.

"No."

Negan just ignored her answer, shoving a hunk of bread into his mouth, spewing crumbs everywhere. Imogen edged away from, faintly repulsed by not just his horrific table manners, but also the strong body odor emanating from him, mixed with the unmistakable smell of alcohol. Up close, he was even more unkempt, his wild grey beard contrasting oddly with his jet hair, the shaggy locks falling almost to his shoulders, framing a bloated face, his stomach straining at the waistband of his jogging bottoms, further indications of overeating.

"Want one?" Negan said thickly, proffering her the plate. "Fucking Bender keeps a goddamn good table, gotta say that about him."

Imogen hesitated, hunger overcoming every other impulse, and she took a sandwich furthest away from his filthy fingers. "Thanks," she said uneasily, before taking a big bite, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Don't thank me, kid," Negan said, now stretching his long limbs out in front of him, "thank the black market, even if you have to trade your first born child for a fucking loaf of bread."

"That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," Imogen said, not really interested.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Negan said, cracking open one of the beers. "Not with that accent anyways."

"Say something I haven't heard already."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

Imogen exhaled sharply, refusing to take the bait. "Neither are you," she said coolly, helping herself to the other beer, ignoring his angry glance at her opportunism.

Negan looked at her for a long moment, his bloodshot green gaze boring into her blue one, his lips curling downwards at the corners. "I'm from Virginia originally," he said just as coolly, "moved to Peach State with the wife. Her people come from about aways – fucking shithole, if I say so myself."

Imogen just nodded, sensing she was on dangerous ground, turning the atmosphere tense.

"Why you wearing Anya's shirt?" Negan said suddenly, startling her. "I think I screwed her in that shirt – it's a goddamn shitty shirt by the way, and it's not really doing you any fucking favours either, kid."

"Nice," Imogen snapped, suddenly losing her cool, "screwing your sick wife's sister. Real classy."

"What the fuck do you know about my sick wife, you little jumped up piece of shit!?" Negan flared up, slamming his beer down on the back step.

"Fuck off," Imogen said tiredly, just as suddenly losing her fire, setting her own beer down. "I don't know your wife and I sure as hell don't bloody know you. So just let me finish this fucking sandwich, alright?"

"Okay, okay," Negan muttered, lapsing into his usual lethargy, "keep your fucking wig on." He downed some more beer, his hand shaking as he lifted the bottle to his lips, Imogen studying him for a long moment, curious despite herself. "What the hell are you looking at, kid?" he asked gruffly, setting the bottle down again. "Ain't much to see if I fucking say so myself."

"You just look like you're having a shittier day than me, that's all," Imogen said, bowing her head again, passing Terry's phone between her hands once more.

"Welcome to the fucking club, sweetheart," Negan said, slurring his speech slightly, "Shit Creek cannot get anymore shittier. I mean, my wife is diagnosed with cancer, I get rid of my piece of ass on the side or she gets rid of me, I don't know – but I'm gonna fucking square it with Lucille, make it right, make up for fucking her over. I figure God will cut me a break, but he fucking doesn't. I find out my wife's cancer is terminal, so what do I do? I go home and screw my wife's sister, that's what, and I keep screwing her because I can, because God is screwing me over, yeah?"

"Yeah," Imogen agreed uneasily, "I suppose so."

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," Negan said, knocking back some more beer, "it's not like you give a fucking shit."

"I don't."

"Do you normally bite the hand that feeds you?"

"It depends on the food the hand serves."

Negan shot her a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth curving up in a mocking smile. "Y'know, if you want, maybe we can... fool around or something, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning forwards, making Imogen lean back, his breath foul. "Make hay while the fucking sun still fucking shines? Hell, my standards have slipped along with everything else, so why the fuck not" –

Imogen slapped him across the face, making his head snap back, the sound cracking like a whip through the air.

Negan twisted his neck from side to side, rubbing his cheek ruefully, feigning faint outrage. " _Oh_ , I am about fifty per cent more into you now, kid," he said, straightening the tray on his lap with his other hand.

"Fuck you," Imogen hissed, and then she was gone, unknowingly leaving what was the beginnings of the new world in her wake.

* * *

"Thank fucking Christ," Doc snapped as Michonne came through the front door, laden with Andre and several carrier bags, "I was about two seconds away from coming down to that bloody art gallery to get you."

"I told you to stay put," Michonne snapped back, slamming the door shut with her hip, her keys dangling from the crook of her finger, "why won't you listen?"

"I did listen actually," Doc countered as he rammed his own key in the lock, turning it with such force he nearly snapped it in half, "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"I don't care," Michonne retorted. "Next time, you _listen_ , okay?"

Doc just looked at her, jaw tightening.

"You wouldn't have got very far anyways," Michonne pointed out, dumping the carrier bags on the floor, ignoring Doc's angry face. "Not without my very convenient car."

"If you don't want to be my chauffeur, just say so," Doc spat, "and what the hell is all that shit you brought back?"

"What was left of the food and stuff in the kitchen back at the gallery," Michonne said bluntly, shoving her keys into her back pocket, evading Andre's grasping grip, "I gave Heda half. There's also some paintings" -

-"Screw your paintings, Michonne!" Doc bellowed, startling her. "Art is not going to put food on the table!"

"It did last night!"

"Fuck last night! Last night was last night!"

"John" -

\- "God, I'm sorry," Doc said suddenly, before just as suddenly doubling up, gripping his head between his hands. "Jesus bloody Christ!" he yelled, straightening up. "Hell on a hotdog!"

Once Michonne would have smiled at his ridiculous euphemisms, but not now, not today. Instead, she just stood there, tightening her grip around Andre, holding onto what she had left. In the ensuing silence, Doc turned and left the hall, stalking into the living room instead. Throwing himself down onto the sofa, he chucked his keys onto the coffee table before burying his face in his hands, unable to forget the sound of screaming and the gunfire that had silenced it.

With a heavy sigh, Michonne ran her shaking hand over Andre's curls before following Doc into the fray. As she stood in the living room doorway, she looked at Doc for a long moment, heart twisting in her chest. She had ransacked the gallery, packing practically before panicking as she locked up, unable to leave her beloved art behind, stuffing her favorites into plastic bags. Then she'd given Heda a lift to her girlfriend's house, the memory of Doc's voice over the phone making her hands shake, her mind playing on a loop the words 'internment facility', imagining Doc being dragged away, forever divided from him.

"Where's Imogen?" Michonne suddenly demanded, a fresh wave of panic gripping her. "And Terry?"

"I don't know."

"Well, did you try phoning them again!?"

"I've been calling Imogen," Doc said bitterly, straightening up, "but it keeps going straight to voicemail whenever the bloody signal isn't cutting out. I've tried Terry, but the same bloody thing."

"It's the signal" -

\- "I know it's the signal!" Doc bellowed. "I just said that, didn't I!?"

"Look I know you're worried about them," Michonne said, struggling to keep her temper, "but don't talk to me like that" -

-" 'Them?' " Doc snorted. "I don't give two flying fucks about Terry."

Michonne just shook her head before pulling out her phone, calling Terry with trembling fingers, but the signal was once again down, forcing her to admit defeat.

"Terry is the least of our problems right now," Doc said, making her head snap up, "so leave him to stew in his own shit" -

\- "Look, I don't know what our problems are, okay?"

"Are you saying I'm lying!?"

Michonne exhaled sharply, realising she'd gone too far despite Doc's provocations. "No, I'm not," she said, shaking her head. "I – I don't even know what I'm saying. I'm – I'm sorry."

Doc just stared at her. "I seen it with my own eyes," he said slowly, "your friend was there, even ask her."

"Who was there?"

"Woman with an afro – you sell her sister's sculptures. Her step-son did an internship at the art gallery last summer or something."

"Clarissa?"

"Clarissa, Clara, I don't give a fuck!"

"Hey" -

\- "Don't hey me, Michonne!" Doc yelled, spit flecking the air. "Your great American government has confiscated my passport" -

\- "John" -

\- "They're going to withdraw my right to food stamps because I'm – just wait for it," Doc cut across her, holding up his hands, before miming a dramatic drumroll, "a fucking foreign national. I won't even be able to buy stuff on the side because the black market is folding – all of Terry's cockroach contacts are leaving town because the shit is about to hit the fan. But then again, aren't the vermin the first to leave a sinking ship" -

\- " _John_ " -

-"But again, none of that really matters, because we'll probably be starving to death in some shithole somewhere" -

\- "You're here," Michonne cut across him in turn, "whilst Imogen and Terry are out _there_ " -

\- "Probably screwing each other's brains out," Doc said, leaning back on the sofa, "so let them fornicate whilst the world falls down. The Romans had the right idea" -

\- "Why do you care?"

"Why do I care what?"

"What Imogen does."

"With Terry?"

"With Terry or anyone or anything," Michonne said, her voice cracking, something in her face suddenly stunning Doc back into sense.

"What are you implying, Michonne?" Doc said quietly, his dark eyes burning like black fire against the backdrop of his bloodless face. But just as he spoke, his phone suddenly went off, startling them both, signalling the signal was back. "Hold that thought," Doc said with a shadow of his old sarcasm, pulling his phone out of his pocket, only to see a text from Terry. "Just as I thought," he said, glancing at the screen, "they're sitting pretty at the end of the world."

"They're okay?"

"What did I just say?"

Michonne looked away, jaw tightening, her relief at Imogen and Terry being alright fading in the face of Doc's cutting words.

"Now what were _you_ saying?" Doc drawled, stowing away his phone. "Oh yes, I remember now. I believe you were implying something ridiculous, but what it was, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps you can enlighten me."

"You know full well what I'm implying."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Are you insane, woman?" he said coldly. "Or are we all just taking a trip down the rabbit hole?"

\- "It's not normal, John," Michonne flared up, suddenly giving voice to all the doubts that tormented her in the darkness, when Doc thought she was asleep in his arms. "It's not normal this – this _thing_ you have with Imogen."

"What fucking thing!?"

"You were living with her" -

\- "I gave her a _job_ \- bed and board were part of the package" -

\- "What, _your_ bed!?"

"Don't be so bloody absurd" -

\- "You were shacked up with a sixteen year old, John," Michonne snapped, "but okay, let's say I give you the benefit of the doubt. You hired her, and bed and board were part of the deal, fair enough, yet why did she stay on once the job ended, huh? You were living together for _years"_ -

\- "I was her _landlord_ ," Doc said, rising to his feet, "once the house was finished, I let her stay for a peppercorn rent. She had nowhere to go, nobody to turn to – I couldn't turf her out onto the streets, she was just a bloody kid, Michonne. With a roof over her head, she could get another job, and she did - she built a life of sorts for herself" -

\- "You saved her, then?" Michonne said, her sarcasm scathing. "How convenient for you."

"She's my best friend," Doc snapped, "but that's it, Michonne. I lead my own life and she leads hers" -

\- "Really?" Michonne said, tears rising in her eyes. "You're always so goddamn _intent_ on being involved in every aspect of her life" -

\- "Don't exaggerate" -

\- "She goes out with Terry or she wants a job or anything, and you blow a goddamn gasket" -

\- "Because she has the unerring tendency to choose what's worst for her" -

\- "But at least it would be her choice – it's _meant_ to be her choice, not yours" -

\- "Michonne" -

\- "I care about Imogen, I do," Michonne said, her voice cracking, "but time and time again I've had to bite my tongue over the depth of your involvement with her – it's too intense, John, what with the mammoth Skyping sessions, how hellbent she was to come over here" -

\- "You really think I'm being unfaithful to you?" Doc said incredulously. "So says the woman who's cheating on her boyfriend behind his back!?"

"I stopped sharing Mike's bed as soon as I got involved with you."

Doc just turned away, running his hand down the side of his face.

"I think – I _thought_ I understood the situation with Imogen," Michonne said brokenly, "that you were being kind, that you were helping her out of the goodness of your heart because you're a good man. But I _look_ at her, John, and I start to doubt what I thought I knew. She's not a thirty something year old woman who's cheating on her drug dealer boyfriend – with - with a business going under, not knowing how she's going to feed her toddler son. Imogen is young - she's - she's got her whole goddamn life in front of her, to not make my mistakes" -

\- "Michonne" -

\- "It has mid-life crisis written all over it," Michonne half sobbed, half laughed, making Doc bow his head, "and you're having your cake and eating it, aren't you, with your mistress across the hall and _her_ right under your roof" -

\- "Mich, just... just come here," Doc said tiredly, holding out his arms to her, Michonne hesitating before surrendering to her sins. Exhaling sharply, Doc drew Michonne onto his lap, before running his hand over Andre's rumpled curls, the little boy peeking out from under his elbow at him. "Look, I know how it bloody looks with Imogen, alright?" Doc then said irritably, tiredly dropping his hand to his side, feeling like he had aged a hundred years overnight. "But it was never like that, and it never will be."

"Prove it," Michonne spat, her face inches from his, wanting to kiss and curse him all at once, "prove it to me."

"How?"

Doc just shook his head, before suddenly kissing her, his ferocity frightening, Michonne responding with equal ire, fingers gripping the front of his crumpled shirt, Doc's trembling hands becoming tangled in her braided hair -

"What the hell is going on here!?" Mike demanded from the doorway, startling Doc and Michonne, making them spring apart. He was holding the key to Doc's apartment in his hand, the one Michonne kept hidden in her favourite pair of high heels, making Michonne realise too late she hadn't been careful enough to cover her tracks, knowing deep down that there had been no point, Mike all too aware of her affair.

""What – what are you doing here, Mike?"" Michonne said stupidly, drawing away from Doc, Andre burying his face in Doc's arm.

"What do you fucking think I'm doing!?" Mike spat, eyes wild. "I heard what was going down with the riots and shit, so I came back to make sure you and Andre were safe, but obviously your white boy lover got here before me."

"What's with the white boy shit?" Doc said dangerously, rising to his feet, holding Andre against his shoulder.

"You know what's with it."

"That's enough," Michonne said quietly, standing between both men, separating them. "It's over."

"It better be," Mike snapped, "you've had your fun, Michonne, you've evened the score. We're equal now, so can we just call it quits and go home?"

Michonne just stared at him, the whine underpinning his words making her flesh creep with revulsion. "I'm... I'm not going anywhere," she said slowly, feeling like the ground was falling away from under her feet. For all of Mike's misdemeanors, she still loved him; he was the father of her child. To cut herself adrift was to exile herself from everything she knew. But something was driving her to it, a desperation to have a better life than this, to be with a man who craved her instead of chemicals.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I think I'm hearing things," Mike said sarcastically, pretending to clean his ear out, "or you don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying" -

The rest of her sentence was cut off by the sound of Doc's front door being banged, once, twice, thrice, the sound officious, impatient. "Open up or we're comin' in!" a man shouted from the hall outside, unaware the door was already unlocked, his words punctuated by further thuds.

"Who the hell is that!?" Mike demanded in disbelief.

"It's the army," Doc said, taking a trembling step back, his words making Mike do a comical double-take, both Doc and Michonne ignoring his bewilderment.

"You need to go," Michonne said, rounding on Doc, taking Andre from him. "Now!"

Doc just stared at her, all the blood draining from his face, "I'm not leaving you" -

\- "You have to," Michonne said, her voice cracking, "but I'll find you, I promise" -

\- "No!" Doc yelled, spit flecking the air. "I'm not going anywhere without you and Andre!"

"You have to!" Michonne yelled back, dark eyes suddenly dangerous. "This is the only way!"

Again, Doc just stared at her, something in her face forcing him to obey her order. Without another word, his mouth found hers, bruising, brutal, and then he was gone, leaving Michonne to face the end of the world alone.


	6. Negan Knows

**Negan Knows**

Imogen paced the path, arms folded across her chest, her feet grating across the gravel, the sound scraping against her eardrums. Behind her, there was the sound of approaching footsteps, slow, lumbering, but she didn't bother to turn around, only continuing her relentless pacing back and forth, feeling a muscle beginning to tic at her temple.

"Where you heading now, honey?"

Imogen repressed the urge to roll her eyes, the sound of Negan's obnoxious drawl making her skin crawl. "As far away from you as fucking possible," she said coldly, turning around as she spoke, only to find Negan looming over her, head tilted to the side.

"Your words wound me, kid," Negan said, pretending to clutch his chest. "You're one hard-hearted bitch, you know that?"

"Shouldn't you be at the hospital with your wife?" Imogen said even more coldly.

"Well, look at little you," Negan said mockingly, his eyes searching her face as he edged even closer, "acting all Al Pacino."

"Somebody has to show you what the score is."

"Who, you?" Negan challenged. "You know me all of five fucking minutes, and already you're sticking your nose into my business, crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed."

"Point still stands though."

Negan's jaw tightened, but before he could say anything else, Terry was there, a rucksack slung across his shoulder. "You ready to go?" Terry said impatiently to Imogen, looking as if he could quite happily leave her behind, the only thing stopping him was what Michonne would do to him if he did.

"I was born ready," Imogen said sarcastically. "What's with the luggage?"

"Just some gear," Terry said distractedly. "Now let's get the hell out of here - it's gonna be a long walk to the art gallery."

Negan watched Imogen's face spectacularly fall. "Fucking Bender forcing you to flee on foot?" he said, enjoying enraging Imogen further. "My, my, he is one tight-fisted motherfucker!"

"Couldn't put it better myself," Terry said coolly, before heading down the winding path, Imogen following him, feeling Negan's gaze boring into her back. As they went past the ramshackle shed, there was suddenly a loud thud, making Terry and Imogen start violently. It inexplicably happened again, the door shaking, Imogen edging forwards, curiosity getting the better of her.

"What the hell?" she muttered, only to reel back as the door buckled before her, threatening to come off its hinges. "Jesus fucking Christ!" she yelled, backing away. "What the fuck is that?"

"Who cares?" Terry snapped. "Let's just get the hell out of here!"

But Imogen ignored him, heading around the side of the shed, only for someone to grab her arm, hauling her back. "Hey!" she protested, whirling around, only to find Negan looming over her once again. "What is your bloody problem?" she hissed, tearing herself out of his hold.

"You're my fucking problem, kid," he hissed back, a strange fear flickering behind his angry eyes, startling Imogen, "fucking rushing in where angels fear to tread."

Imogen looked at Negan for a long moment, something in his face making her brow furrow further. Then the door went again, not once, but twice, thrice, a sudden snarl renting the silence in half, the sound making Imogen's eyes go wide. " _No_ ," she whispered, rushing to the cracked window, grabbing the sill for support. Through the faint gloom, she could see a figure half hunched over, only for it to suddenly turn and charge the window, throwing itself against the glass, Imogen catching a glimpse of a ravaged face framed by long red hair, and then she was being dragged backwards, Negan cursing her to kingdom come, Terry already gone to the gate, disappearing out of sight.

"Get away from her!" Ben yelled from the front door, making Negan and Imogen whirl around, only to see Ben brandishing a shotgun in their direction.

"Whoa, drop that shit now!" Negan bellowed, holding his hands up, signalling surrender.

"Get away from _her_ ," Ben repeated through gritted teeth, his finger curling around the trigger.

"Okay, I'm getting goddamn away from her!" Negan snapped, edging away from Imogen, leaving her open and exposed.

"Not her!" Ben screamed, advancing on them. "Tori!"

Imogen stared at him, bewildered, only to remember as if from another life Anya mentioning Ben fighting with a Tori over his truck. "Tori?" she said stupidly. "Truck Tori?"

"Don't mention the goddamn truck!" Ben shouted, before suddenly pulling the trigger, the bullet just missing Imogen, striking the shed.

"Holy hell, Bender!" Negan choked out, ducking down, throwing his arms across his head as he did. "That was so not _cool!_ "

"Don't blame me!" Ben screamed, spit flecking the air. "It's all her fucking fault! She just wouldn't shut up!"

As Ben continued to rant and rave, Negan slowly straightened up, lowering his arms to his sides. "Nobody's fucking blaming you, son," he said tiredly, making Ben stop mid-sentence, startled, "but sometimes too far is too fucking far, yeah?"

Ben stared at Negan, wrongfooted. "I didn't mean to hurt her," Ben said uncertainly, shotgun still raised, "but she kept going on and on about the truck, and I just wanted her to shut the hell up. Is that too much to ask for, man?"

"No, it's not," Negan agreed, backing away, discreetly signalling the shellshocked Imogen to follow his example. "You know," he continued, feigning concern, "I took a swatch through the shed window earlier, your girl seems pretty riled up. Maybe you should try and calm her the fuck down, huh?"

Ben hesitated, seeming to think about, before nodding. "I'll apologize," he said, lowering the shotgun to his side, "I did go a little bit over the score."

"Understatement of the fucking year," Negan muttered, remembering the vicious red rope-burn marks he'd seen on Tori's neck through the window last night. As Ben stared in the direction of the shed, eyes glazing over, face lost in thought, Negan then licked his lower lip, preparing to play his ace. "You do that, buddy," he then said in a loud voice, careful to keep his tone encouraging, ignoring Imogen's panicked glance, "never let the sun go down on your anger, and all that shit."

Acting as if Negan hadn't spoken, Ben went over to the shed, fumbling in his back pocket for the keys, speaking soothingly to Tori as he did. As Imogen suddenly made to stop him, Negan grabbed her, swinging her clean off her feet. Before she could react, he was carrying her down the path, moving at a staggering speed, the strain making his breath come in huge rasps.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Imogen cried, twisting and turning in his vice-like grip. "She'll kill him!"

"Which is the whole fucking point," Negan wheezed, "since he was all set to kill us like he killed the tempting Tori."

Imogen's answer to this was to start sobbing, making Negan raise his eyes heavenwards, wondering why he was burdening himself with such deadweight. With some difficulty, he kicked open the gate, just as Ben let out a terrible scream, signaling Tori had secured her final revenge. Dropping Imogen like a hot coal, Negan collapsed against the fence, his hand flying to his thudding heart. "You wouldn't think I was a fucking high school gym teacher, would you?" he gasped, before bending over double, pressing his palms against his knees.

"I think you're a fucking bastard!"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, sweetheart?" Negan pretended to ponder, glancing over his shoulder as he straightened up, Ben having suddenly fallen silent.

"You knew, didn't you!?"

"Knew what?"

"About that _thing!_ "

"The thing formerly known as fucking Tori?"

"Are you bloody nuts!?" Imogen exploded. "You made yourself a fucking _sandwich_ when you knew _it_ was in there the whole time!"

"Hey, I swung by here last night for nothing more than a beer," Negan said conversationally, feigning a cool he didn't feel, "only to see a _distinctly_ dead Tori try to take a bite out of Bender back there. That's when I realised something fucking freaky-deaky was going down. Gave me a goddamn turn, let me tell you. It was Pee-Pee Pants City time, man. Did a total runner, then I came crawling back, convinced I'd finally fucking lost the plot, that it was all in my fucking head. Wouldn't be the first time I freaked out over something that wasn't there." He studied Imogen's tear-streaked face, his eyes narrowing, a mocking smile playing across his lips again, belying his own disturbed state of mind. "Judging by your reaction, you've fucking seen this shit before, haven't you?" he then said, tilting his chin back, face falsely thoughtful, "and the only reason you're still fucking standing is because you didn't play the fucking hero."

"Fuck you!"

"It's the truth, isn't it?"

"At least I don't stick my head in the sand" -

\- "Ben!?" Anya screamed out of sight, making Negan and Imogen whirl around again, their heads snapping up.

Negan looked at Imogen, raising his eyebrows at her. "Here's your chance, kid," he taunted, spreading his large hands wide, "go ahead and prove me wrong. Show me you're a fucking hero."

Imogen stared at him, heart pounding in her chest, feeling like she was balancing on the edge of a precipice. At the back of her mind, she knew this was where the rest of her life began, deciding what she would become. Fighting the panic threatening to paralyze her, she suddenly darted in the direction of the house again, acting on impulse.

For a split second, Negan just stood there, before suddenly doubling up, wrapping his arms around his head, a terrible bellow of frustration and fear escaping his throat. He had raged and railed against the cancer killing his wife, but underneath it all, he had accepted her end, expecting his own to arrive with it, Negan more than welcoming an escape from his agony. Yet now the world was unraveling, and his kneejerk reflex was to live, not die, contradicting what he so craved. Instinct was spurring him to survive, but in this moment, morality won out over mortality.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Negan yelled, echoing Imogen's earlier sentiment, before following her into the fray, only to find Imogen awkwardly armed with a spade, dodging with some difficulty both Tori and a reanimated Ben, Anya cowering behind her, begging for Ben to stop, her pleas falling on deaf ears.

"Some bloody help here!?" Imogen exclaimed, before suddenly screaming as Ben lunged forwards, seizing her by the wrist.

"Now that's no fucking way to treat a lady!" Negan said, grabbing Ben by the shoulders, dragging him off Imogen. "Why don't you pick on someone your own shoe-size?"

Ben just snarled at him, eyes blue-white, his throat torn out from where Tori's teeth had met flesh.

Panting, Imogen swung her spade up, wielding it like an axe, before bringing it down on Tori's skull, crushing it into oblivion, Anya screaming at every strike. As Negan shoved Ben away from him, Imogen flung him the spade, Negan trying and failing to catch it, his reflexes not what they were.

"Shit!" Negan hissed, snatching the spade up just as Ben lunged at him again.

" _No!_ " Anya screamed as Negan suddenly slammed the spade into Ben's stomach, ramming his shoulder into him at the same time, knocking Ben onto his back. Before Anya could stop him, Negan began to smash the spade off Ben's head and upper body until it was nothing but a pile of bloody pulp. With the sweat pouring down his face, Negan turned to Imogen with wild eyes, only to see her standing there, sobbing again, Anya on her knees, shellshocked.

"Buck up, baby," Negan aimed at Anya, his words punctuated by short pants of breath, "this is the way of the fucking world now!"

Anya just stared at him, eyes dangerously vacant, a single tear falling down her face, the only sign of life left.

"And you," Negan said, rounding on the still sobbing Imogen, "that spark of conscience is gonna get you fucking killed, kid." As he loomed over her, Imogen tearfully tried and failed to stare him down, unable to stand her ground. "Trust me," he said, his voice cracking, "Negan _knows_."

* * *

"Your carriage awaits, ladies," Negan said flippantly, gesturing to the battered looking people-carrier illegally parked on the sidewalk.

Imogen approached the vehicle with some trepidation, arms folded across her blood-splattered shirt, keeping her shaking hands under control. She didn't know what the hell was happening, only that she was operating on automatic pilot, unable to comprehend the chaos unfolding around her. Anya limped alongside her, eyes swollen, face still shellshocked. She had wept over her brother's body, rocking back and forth, keening like a banshee, Negan forcing her to her feet, before suddenly snapping, slapping her hard across the face, stunning her into silence.

They had left the bungalow and the bodies behind, the words unspoken that it would be the last they'd ever see of the place, Imogen's interlude there over, whilst Anya was now without a home and Negan without where he went to lick his wounds. What Negan and Anya would do next, Imogen didn't know and didn't care. Her only objective was to reach the art gallery, get Michonne and Andre, then return to the apartment to find Doc. Where they would go, what they would do, were things Imogen refused to face. She only knew she was now living from moment to moment, dictating the pattern of whatever days that were still left to her.

"It's quite the chick magnet, isn't it?" Negan said, interrupting her thoughts, leaning against the dented door as he spoke. "Real pussywagon."

Imogen just looked at him, his mocking manner getting on what was left of her nerves, but as her eyes met his, she once again saw that strange fear flicker behind his gaze. Seeing her scrutiny, Negan abruptly turned away from her, flinging open the car door instead, wordlessly indicating for her to get in. She hesitated, realising too late the predicament she'd put herself in, unwittingly entrusting her fate to a complete stranger.

"Fucking get in, kid," Negan snapped, "and stop looking at me like I'm Ted Bundy. I don't hold with that type of shit."

"I've got places to be actually," Imogen snapped, turning on him in turn, "so I can't waste time on a magical mystery tour" -

\- "I can drink _and_ drive, sweetheart," Negan said caustically, immediately understanding her indirect insult, "just one of my many skills. But what can I say, I'm a multi-tasking man." He paused for a moment, studying Imogen through narrowed eyes again. "So where does Your Highness want to go? Some art gallery joint, isn't it?" he said dismissively.

Imogen stared at him, startled. "What, you'll help me?" she then said suspiciously, glancing at the still silent Anya, who just stood there, face bloodless.

Negan mulled over her words, tugging thoughtfully on his beard as he did. "Didn't I just save your sweet ass from fucking Bender? Twice, might I add, before and after fucking Bender so conveniently kicked the bucket," he then said, sucking on his teeth. "And what about the shenanigans with the shed and the tempting Tori back there? Didn't I have a little hand in that too? Seems like I took quite the trouble"-

\- "So why take the trouble?" Imogen cut across him, her voice cracking. "Why not just walk away if that's where you're going with this?"

"Oh, Imogen has her fucking thinking cap on," Negan said, amused against his will. "That's right though, I don't believe in doing something for nothing. So what am I getting out of helping you? Maybe just the satisfaction of saving that fucking fine ass of yours. It would be a shame to let a rack and back like that go to waste just because I was too damn lazy to lift a finger" -

\- "Fuck. You," Imogen said coldly, making Negan throw back his head with laughter, the sound ringing around the empty street.

"Quite," Negan then said, patting Imogen almost paternally on the head, making Imogen flinch away from his fingers. "But now I've fucking answered your question, you can answer mine. Why'd you risk your neck for the lovely Anya here? Did you have an... ulterior motive, huh? If you get what I'm saying," he continued, winking at the appalled Imogen, "let me tell you though, you'd be wasting your time, since Anya doesn't swing that way, even if it would be super hot to see" -

Imogen abruptly made to turn and leave, but before she could react, Negan was on top of her, grabbing her wrist, halting her in her tracks. "Let go of me," she hissed, trying and failing to pull herself free. "You know damn well why I risked my neck. It was to prove I wasn't a prick like you."

"What, I say jump and you ask how high?" Negan pretended to ponder, looming over her, green eyes glittering oddly.

Imogen finally jerked her arm out of his grip, staggering as she did, Negan catching her by the hips, steadying her. "Take a hike, dickhead," she said through gritted teeth, shoving him away from her, making him stagger in turn, "and the next time you put your hands on me, you won't have any hands."

"We can still have fun without them," Negan grinned wolfishly, enjoying annoying Imogen, "so why should we let some stumps stop the fucking party?"

"Screw you!"

" _Oh_ , I am all yours, sweetheart. Just say the word, kid, and I am _there_."

"God, I am done with you!" Imogen exploded, rounding on him. "Just fuck off!"

"So you keep saying," Negan said, circling her, "but I think you'd miss me even after such short acquaintance." Imogen backed away from him, Negan following each footstep, towering over her once more. "Stop screwing around, kid," he said abruptly, his tone suddenly serious, wrongfooting Imogen, "you want a fucking lift or not?"

Imogen just stood there, jaw tightening, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

"I'll take that as a yes," Negan snapped, "so get your ass into gear and get in the goddamn car!"

Imogen flipped him the middle finger, before flinging herself into the front seat, cursing Negan under her breath as she did.

"Get in the back, Anya," Negan ordered as he opened the back door, his gaze riveted on the mutinous Imogen, something about the unspoken challenge in her eyes attracting his attention against his will. He had been sleepwalking his way through life since Lucille had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, but the whispers of the new world were slowly stirring him from his slumber, Imogen awakening him even further.

"No," Anya said in a low voice. " _No_."

Negan finally turned to face her. "Get in the car, Anya," he said quietly. "Don't make me manhandle you in."

"You just murdered my brother, you bastard," Anya hissed, her mismatched eyes suddenly filled with fury, rage restoring her back to life. "Now you're lining up your latest screw whilst my sister lies dying in her bed. So fuck you and your fucking car!"

"Don't like being ditched, do we?" Negan said coolly, Anya having the grace to look guilty, the colour rising in her cheeks. But she still stood her ground, refusing to get in the car, making Negan's jaw tighten dangerously. "God grant me patience," Negan said under his breath, half closing his eyes. Before Anya could react, she was swung off her feet and half flung into the back of the car, colliding with the booster seat, smashing her side off it. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Negan said, slamming the door on her angry face. "Now buckle up. It's going to be one hell of a ride."

* * *

Imogen edged away from Negan as he flung himself into the front seat, making the vehicle violently shift sideways with his weight. "Time to hit the road, girls," he announced, pulling the door shut, before patting his pockets down, searching for his car keys. "We are getting _the_ hell out of hell."

"We should call the cops," Anya said slowly from the back-seat, sitting up as she spoke, pushing her pink-streaked hair out of her eyes, "this – this thing – we are in _deep_ shit, Negan, way over our heads."

"Which translates as let's fucking throw Negan to the sharks," Negan snapped, turning around in his own seat. "You think I was fucking born yesterday? You just want to pay me back for braining fucking Bender!"

Anya let out a whimper at his words, cramming her fist into her mouth to stifle the sound, Imogen fighting the urge to clamp her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

"Ben killed Tori, and then Tori killed Ben, wherein our resident lovebirds then tried to kill us!" Negan bellowed, spit flecking the air. "How that is fucking possible, I sure as hell don't know, but this is the deep shit we are in as you so succinctly put it, so I suggest you get your head in the game and get a fucking grip, Anya!"

Anya collapsed against the window, burying her face in her arms, sobbing like a child. Feeling like she was falling from a great height, Imogen leaned her forehead against the dashboard, her breath coming in shallow gasps. As though standing outside herself, she remembered the weight of the branch in her hands; of the spade almost slipping from her fingers, the heft of it as she raised it above her head, bringing it down upon skull after skull, instinct overcoming conscience.

"Get up, kid," Negan said tiredly, making Imogen raise her spinning head, "God isn't fucking listening."

"I wasn't praying," Imogen said, her voice cracking. "I think it's a little late in the day for religion."

"Amen to that," Negan said, exhaling sharply. "Now strap yourself in. I'm not insured, not that it matters now."

With shaking hands, Imogen did as she was bid, the seatbelt sliding from her sweating fingers several times, before she finally buckled it. Glancing up, her eye was caught by a battered photo tucked into a corner of the overhead visor, showing a surprisingly debonair looking Negan with his arm slung around a pretty blonde woman's waist, his hand resting on a teenage girl's shoulder, who was balancing a golden haired baby on her hip, all four squinting slightly against the glare of the sun. But they were all overshadowed by Negan, who had on a white shirt buttoned too low, exposing an expanse of broad chest, his grin gleaming white against the backdrop of his tanned skin. He was a world away from the man sitting beside her, healthy and happy, almost arrogant in his fortune at having everything the heart desired.

Imogen recognized the blonde woman as Lucille, her hair suspiciously platinum compared to the tow-headed teenager from the family portrait back at the bungalow. But Lucille's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, the expression strained, almost as if she was playing a part, not quite carrying the illusion off. She looked to be in her late thirties, still carrying some baby weight, her frayed denim shorts straining against her skin, but she was obviously beautiful, the light to Negan's darkness, the blue sky framing them both.

However, it was the children that interested Imogen most, the sight of them startling her despite everything. Not once had Negan mentioned them, not even when he was inflicting his life story upon her, and Imogen's gaze lingered on them the longest, seeing Negan strongly in the teenage girl, having his dark hair and tanned skin, her features a feminized version of his apart from her tip-tilted nose, an inheritance from her mother, Anya possessing the same characteristic. The baby was almost indistinguishable apart from her fair hair and wide eyes, Negan nearly non-existent in the child, the baby barefooted in a fancy frilled white dress, chewing on a chubby fist.

"Tuscany, two years ago," Negan said in a low voice, making Imogen glance sharply at him, "just before the cancer came." Anya let out another sob, making Negan flinch, before swiftly recovering himself. "As you can fucking observe, I was quite the dish back in the day," he said with a wolfish grin, holding Imogen's gaze, "utterly irresistible, your local loveable rogue."

"Really," Imogen said coldly, her fingers curling into fists by her sides.

"Really, really, kid," Negan said, finally pulling out his car-keys, "you'd have been falling over yourself to get into my bed, sweetheart."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Negan just laughed, before ramming the key into the ignition, kickstarting the people-carrier into creaking life. As he drove, Imogen noticed his hands were shaking, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white with the tension. He asked her gruffly where she was going, Imogen reluctantly giving him the name of Michonne's art gallery, a place he surprisingly recognized, Negan not striking her as the type to appreciate art, only for him to explain he'd passed it on his way to the hospital too many times to count. Negan then slid a CD on, signalling conversation was now at a stop, playing at top volume _Nowhere To Run_ by Martha and the Vandellas, Negan mouthing the words with mock exaggeration as he drove.

"So Imogen, what do you do for fun?" Negan asked as the song faded into silence, his question startling her.

"Excuse me?"

"Quit stalling," Negan snapped, glaring at Anya who was staring mutinously at him in the rear-view mirror, making her reluctantly avert her face away, "and just answer the goddamn question. We're all friends here, aren't we? I mean, there's nothing like bashing in a few brains to bring us all together. So what do you do for fucking kicks, kid?"

Imogen glanced out of the car window, full lips thinning. "Karaoke," she then said abruptly, sensing rather than seeing Negan's mocking grin.

"Karaoke?" Negan pressed, darkly amused. "You don't seem the type to get down to Celine Dion, sweetheart."

Imogen's fists clenched further by her sides. "Well, you should never judge by appearances, then, should you?" she said, her gaze still deliberately riveted on the road flashing past the window.

"Well, maybe one day you'll sing me a song," Negan countered, "maybe some Carpenters, huh? I love them. What a fucking band!"

At this, Imogen glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, surprised at his enthusiasm despite everything. "The Carpenters?" she said sceptically. "You don't look like the twee type."

"You should never judge by appearances, then, should you?" Negan said coldly, turning her own words back on her. Imogen's jaw tightened, and she went back to looking out of the window again, brow furrowing slightly. "What do you sell your soul for?" Negan asked abruptly, making Imogen turn around once more, brow furrowing further. "I mean, what do you do to scrape out a fucking living?"

"You really want to talk about this shit!?" Imogen said in disbelief. "As if none of that happened back there!?" -

\- "I don't want to fucking think about what happened back there!" Negan exploded, slamming his hand down on the steering wheel as he spoke, making the people-carrier swerve perilously to the left as he briefly lost control. "So tell me what the hell you do to get by!" he then snapped, swinging the vehicle back round, forcing Imogen to grip the dashboard for support.

"I was a fucking cleaner!"

"Cleaning fucking what exactly!?"

"Houses, offices – if it was crap hours, I had to pick up barwork to make up the difference," Imogen spat, "I did a stint as a toilet attendant on top of other shitty slave labour numbers I don't care to remember. Happy?"

"As fucking Larry," Negan spat back. "So why are you here in hellhole Albany? Holiday?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I can?"

"Bullshit," Negan drawled, shooting her a sidelong glance, "a girl like you doesn't come to a stick-up-its-ass shithole for a good time. What was it, family? A guy? A gal?"

"It was because my life was up Shit Creek, alright?" Imogen retorted, something stopping her from discussing Doc. "But now I would accept it and be grateful, because that life was a tea party compared to this."

"How so?"

Imogen bowed her head. Doc didn't even know the depths she had sank to, only thinking she was dissatisfied with the cards life had dealt her, that she was tired of cleaning up other people's crap, of dating deadbeats and spending every weekend at the same seedy spots, using alcohol to escape into oblivion. She had lied about the state of her life, yet here she was, confessing all to a complete stranger.

"I was in debt," she said, her voice cracking, making Negan glance at her sharply, "like real up-to-my-ears shit. I seemed to be always between jobs, and I had no savings or anything. And when I had a job, it was always slipping through my fingers – they'd find somebody cheaper - somebody that did the dusting right or somebody who would shut their mouth" -

\- "What do you mean by that?" Negan cut across her. "You see something you shouldn't?"

"I didn't give two shits if the husband was screwing the nanny," Imogen said bitterly, "but I gave a shit when the same husband tried to grab my arse."

"You seem to give a shit about me screwing my sister-in-law," Negan said idly, swinging the steering wheel round, shooting Anya an ironic look over his shoulder as he did.

"There are levels and limits," Imogen said tiredly, suppressing her desperate craving for a cigarette, "my last job... I was... involved with my employer until he kicked me to the kerb. The fucker fired me. He was... married, but his wife pretended not to know he was playing the field as long as he kept paying the bills. The arrangement suited us all until he got tired of me and moved onto the next moron who fell for his lines."

"So I can't commit adultery but you can be an instrument of it?"

"Your wife is dying!" Imogen said incredulously. "There's a bloody difference!"

"So you were screwing your married boss," Negan said slowly, "and I suppose you took him for all he fucking had as well, yeah?"

"If his wife could, I didn't see why I shouldn't get a slice of the pie as well," Imogen said coldly, "we were both earning it on our backs."

"Was he good-looking, charming, debonair?" Negan taunted. "Did he treat you like the lady you so obviously are?"

Imogen glared at him. "He was good-looking, yes," she said stiffly, "and he could charm the birds off the trees. That was the main attraction. Everything else was just... a perk."

"Really?"

Imogen's jaw tightened, remembering the fancy restaurants, the expensive jewellery, the five star spas and hotels. "What is it to you?" she said tersely. "We're just ships passing in the night."

The corner of Negan's mouth curled upwards. "Maybe because I like you sitting in fucking judgment on me," he said lazily, "that I find your hypocrisy super hot. Underneath your airs and graces, you're a little wild-cat, and my taste runs to claws, me- _ow_."

"Do you always talk such shit?"

"Well, it beats talking about how the dead are somehow walking, doesn't it?" Negan said, shrugging his shoulders.

Imogen looked away, half closing her eyes, not wanting to remember what her world had become.

"Anyways, like I said, kid, that shirt is really doing you no fucking favours," Negan then said with disapproval, changing the subject, his choice of subject making Imogen glare at him again. "God, what wouldn't I give to see you in a fitted white sundress," he said under his breath, his green gaze raking her, "with nothing on underneath, the strap slipping off your shoulder, that ivory skin with a hint of honey" -

\- "For fuck's sake!" Imogen exploded, rounding on him. "Would you just shut the hell up!?"

"And you would be looking at me just like that," Negan continued, unperturbed, "like you wanted to break my jaw."

"Are you some kind of sick sadist!?"

"No, I just know how to appreciate a woman with spirit," Negan said, shrugging his shoulders again. "You get tired of a broad who agrees with you all the time. What can I say? I like a fucking challenge."

"We are not having this conversation."

"I think you'll find that we are," Negan said dryly. "You and I, we're kindred spirits, kid. "

Imogen glanced at him, taking in his long unkempt hair and beer gut; the rancid smell of unwashed flesh and alcohol that emanated from his stained shirt. He had bloodshot eyes and the beginnings of a double chin, with an air of desperation hanging around him, repulsing her. But then her gaze was drawn to the battered photograph hanging high above, forcing her to compare the Negan of then to the Negan of now, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering if she really was immune to his perverse charm as she thought she was.

"The messed up thing is you like me anyways," Negan said quietly, reading the conflict in her eyes without his usual mocking condemnation, "whether you like it or not."

 _I heard that you like the bad girls_  
 _Honey, is that true?_


	7. My Heart Is An Empty Gun

**Author's Note:** New videos can be found on Youtube under: **'hide your fires' (negan/imogen (oc) the walking dead fanfiction trailer** ; **all i gave you is gone** **–** **negan & imogen (oc)**; **video games** **–** **negan & imogen (oc**) and **the first day of the rest of your life** **–** **negan/imogen (oc)/rick grimes**.

* * *

 **My Heart Is An Empty Gun**

"Well, what the hell do we have here?" Negan drawled, slowing the people-carrier down to a crawl. Up ahead was a small juncture, with two cars caught in a collision, smoke issuing from the hoods. Standing by the side of the road was Terry and a young couple, the man cradling a crying baby swaddled in a pink blanket, his face ashen. Terry had obviously purloined a vehicle to aid his escape, but his wild flight had been cut short, almost ending in tragedy.

"We need to stop," Imogen said abruptly, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"We don't need to do anything, darling," Negan said lazily. "New world order and all that jazz."

"I can't go back without Terry," Imogen said through gritted teeth, "whether I want to or not."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Well, if you can't, I most certainly can."

"You fucking most certainly won't."

"What would have happened if we hadn't run into him right now after he's just ran these fucking fine people off the road, huh?" Negan pointed out, gesturing at the sorry scene before them with a large hand. "You would have gone back without him, that's what, so what's the difference if you go back without him now?"

"I have to take him back to his people, alright?" Imogen snapped, thinking of Michonne, how she inexplicably held Terry in too high regard, Terry being the brother she never had. "Plus there's those so called fine people you're so suddenly enamored with – they obviously need help."

"I'm only enamored with you, Imogen," Negan said mockingly, "nobody else, just you and your heroic, hypocritical little heart. Just look at you, all ready to save some souls, fighting the fucking good fight! Makes a nice change from saving your own skin, doesn't it?"

Imogen exhaled sharply. "Just stop the car, please, alright?" she tried and failed to say reasonably, turning to Negan as she spoke, eyes almost pleading.

"No."

"I can't go back without him!"

"Just tell a porky pie," Negan snapped back, green eyes suddenly alight with insidious intent, "say he skipped town or that he bit the bullet" -

\- "I just _can't_ ," Imogen hissed. "Now stop the bloody car!"

Negan braked out of the blue, sending Anya flying back in her seat, Imogen almost smashing her face off the dashboard. Ignoring Imogen's curses, Negan sank back in his own seat, brows drawing together dangerously. "Don't trust Terry, kid," he said, staring straight ahead, almost unaware of his audience outside, the young couple approaching the vehicle before hesitating, something in the scene before them stopping them from coming any closer, "he's a fucking snake in the grass."

"I don't give two flying fucks about Terry," Imogen said with great difficulty, pushing the hair out of her eyes, fighting the urge to deck Negan, "but I give a shit about somebody else, which is why I am doing this. If you can't understand that, well, that's your problem, not mine." Without another word, she flung herself out of the people-carrier, Negan watching as she marched right up to Terry, who held his hands up, signaling surrender. She proceeded to give him an earful, before shoving him hard in the chest, making Terry stagger, then she turned to the frightened looking couple, her interest mostly focused on the baby, its crying carrying through the air.

"You're interested in her, aren't you?" Anya said in a dead voice, knowing Negan too well, that he was a predator ever on the prowl for fresh flesh.

"I'm intrigued," Negan said nonchalantly, tilting his head to the side, his green gaze traveling over Imogen, "there's a difference."

"What about my sister?" Anya spat. "Don't you love her?"

"What about you?" Negan said, rounding on her. "You made the first move on me, sweetheart. It's not my fault I couldn't find it in myself to resist your amorous advances."

Anya's jaw tightened. "You haven't answered my question," she said stiffly, "don't you love Lucille?"

"Of course I love Lucy," Negan said coldly, leaning casually on the steering wheel, contradicting the tense cast of his frame, "but the grass is always greener, isn't it? Onwards and upwards, to fucking pastures anew" -

\- "Whatever, Negan," Anya said, her voice cracking, "you're just a bastard. I thought you were misunderstood, that Ben was wrong about you, but he wasn't" -

\- "Bender's dead, in case you've forgotten," Negan said dryly, making Anya flinch, "and the world's going to pot, but every cloud has a silver lining, hasn't it?" He let his gaze drift downwards again, dwelling on Imogen's long limbs encased in tight denim, clinging to every curve. "Seems like I've found mine," he muttered as Imogen came stalking back over, arms folded across the front of her bloodied shirt, Terry and the young couple trailing nervously at her heels. "What is it, princess?" Negan said coolly, rolling down the window. "You're looking a trifle agitated."

"We've got company," Imogen snapped, gesturing for the others to get in the back of the people-carrier, her order being instantly obeyed, Terry's face mutinous as he slid into the back-seat beside them, forcing Anya to edge over, crushed against the booster seat.

"Do I look like I'm running a fucking taxi service?" Negan snapped back. "You better be paying for the petrol."

"Screw your petrol," Imogen said, flinging open the car door, before throwing herself down in the front seat. "You can take these people to the hospital with you."

"Fuck off," Negan snapped, turning the ignition on, only for the engine to refuse to start.

"Don't blame me," Imogen hissed, "blame bloody Terry back there. He just pranged our new friends' car, hence this little detour to the hospital."

"Well, could you tell them to keep the fucking volume down?" Negan demanded as he finally managed to kickstart the engine back to life, cringing as the baby began to cry again, the sound echoing around the now cramped people-carrier.

"Yes, the baby's fine, thanks for asking," Imogen said sarcastically, "but the sooner you get to the hospital, the better."

"I'm working on it," Negan retorted, swinging the steering wheel round, before glancing over his shoulder at the strangers in the back-seat, a mocking grin now tugging on his lips, seeming to relish the sight of their strained faces. "I really should sort out the seating arrangements," he said lightly, jerking his chin at the folded-down seats that formed the third row at the very back of the people-carrier, "but it's kinda cosy this way, isn't it?"

His gaze deliberately lingered on the woman the longest, her plain face colouring hotly under his studied scrutiny, making her shift awkwardly in her seat, uncomfortable with his attention. "Thanks," she said brokenly to Imogen, averting her eyes from Imogen's bloodstained attire, obviously thinking it expedient not to ask questions, "we really appreciate this."

Imogen didn't answer her, only facing the window instead, arms still folded across her chest. Her conscience went by contraries, her heart hypocritical, just as Negan had observed, Imogen a bundle of contradictions he was only on the edge of understanding.

"Hey, you need to buckle up," Negan said, lightly touching Imogen's knee, only for her to flinch violently. "Whoa, calm the hell down," he snapped, "I was only trying to get your attention."

"Fuck you," Imogen retorted, fumbling with her belt, "just bloody drive."

"You know, I'm really getting tired of having these kind of conversations with you," Negan said in an undertone, "there is such a thing as fucking civilized discourse."

"Not with you there isn't," Imogen said abruptly.

* * *

"Great, what the fuck now!?" Negan exclaimed, slowing the people-carrier down again, the tyres screeching in protest. Up ahead, in the near distance, a long line of vehicles had formed, honking horns and revving engines.

"It's a military roadblock – that stop and search crap," Imogen said, before suddenly booting the dashboard, cursing loudly. "Shit-fucking-hell!" she screamed, doubling up, wrapping her arms around her head. In that moment, everything that had been threatening to overwhelm her finally did so, and she broke down, sobbing and screaming, kicking every solid surface within reach.

" _Damn_ ," Negan said quietly, looking at Imogen for a long moment, before swinging the steering wheel round, cringing again as the baby immediately started bawling afresh as well. He parked the people-carrier in a stranger's driveway, out of sight of the snaking queue of vehicles, before cutting the engine, resting his wrists atop the steering wheel.

"Uh, Imogen," Terry said, raising his voice above the racket, "this isn't exactly the time" -

Imogen's answer was to fling herself out of the people-carrier again, Negan raising his eyes heavenwards before following her. "Hey, kid," he said, ramming his hands into his trouser pockets, "Terence might have a point" -

\- "Fuck. Off," Imogen said through gritted teeth, pushing the hair out of her swollen eyes, "I don't care. Do I look like I care?"

"Do I look like _I_ care?" Negan said, striding over to her, making Imogen take a shaking step back. "Am I wearing some sweet little shirt that says so? A little slogan that says I give a goddamn shit? Listen up, sweetheart, and listen well, because I don't give my left nut about what happens to you or Terry. You don't know me and I sure as hell don't know you, but somehow we're all in this shit together and we just have to suck it up."

Imogen stared at Negan, taking in his trembling hands and wild eyes, almost as if she was seeing him for the first time. "I just want to go home," she then said in a small voice, "to find my family, that's all."

"Well, I sure as shit don't want to go home to my family," Negan said, his voice cracking, half turning away from her as he spoke, "to tell my daughters the dead are walking, to say to my wife that I just bashed in her brother's skull, that she'll become one of those things" -

\- "You should just go to the hospital, Negan," Imogen cut across him, half closing her eyes, not wanting to hear the truths falling from his lips, "I'll make my own way back, and Terry can just piss off. I am done with him, with everything" -

\- "Look, kid," Negan snapped, rounding on her, "stop fucking about and just get in the goddamn car, okay!?" -

\- "She can't," Terry said in a panicked voice, making both Imogen and Negan turn around, only to see Terry standing by the side of the people-carrier, clinging to the half open door, "she can't go anywhere."

 _Truth is like a loaded gun_  
 _You don't wanna point that thing round here_  
 _Make all of your skeletons appear_  
 _This is real life..._

* * *

For a moment, Negan just stood there, eyes unreadable. "What the fuck are you on about?" he suddenly demanded, stalking over to Terry, making him back away, crashing into the people-carrier.

"The army is arresting everyone who doesn't hold an American passport," Terry explained agitatedly, making Imogen suddenly start forwards, Negan halting her with his hand, "or so they're saying," he said in a wild rush, jerking his chin at the couple in the back-seat, who were watching the proceedings with wide eyes, Anya hugging her knees, chin trembling.

"Get out," Negan fired at the plain-faced woman, "now!" She hesitated, the man grabbing her arm, stopping her. "Move your ass!" Negan yelled, spit flecking the air. "Or I'll move it for you!" The woman obeyed his order, stumbling out of the people-carrier, legs trembling underneath her, the man making to follow her, only for Negan to block him, something in Negan's face stopping him from anything further. "Stay put, buddy," Negan warned him quietly, "there's no fucking need for the theatricals." The man sank weakly back in his seat, holding the baby against his shoulder, trying and failing to curb its crying.

"What the fuck are they on about?" Imogen said hysterically, thinking of Doc, now confronted with another way of losing him. "The army are arresting people!?"

"Calm the hell down," Negan said abruptly, before turning to the woman, lips curling downwards. "You want to explain what the hell is going on, sweetheart?" he said, tilting his head to the side. "I don't fancy being picked up by some jumped up G.I Joe, so start talking, or you and your beau can start walking."

The woman let out a slow, shaking breath. "My brother-in-law was taken away last night to an internment camp," she then said, her voice cracking, "the military had already confiscated his passport, and there was talk of stopping his entitlement to food stamps. He's – he's Danish" -

\- "I don't care if he's a Danish delight," Negan snapped, "all I care about is my own sorry ass" -

– "Well, so you should," the woman snapped back, suddenly not caring about the consequences of not controlling her temper, "the army is arresting everyone within ten feet of all foreign nationals if they can't prove they hold an American passport."

"Well, that's us well and royally screwed, isn't it?" Negan said, Terry turning away, Imogen half closing her eyes again. "And there's me thinking the day couldn't possibly get any better." He ran his hand across his beard, studying Imogen through narrowed eyes, making her stare at him in turn, not understanding his scrutiny. "Heads up, Anya," he then said abruptly, ignoring Imogen's bewildered expression, stalking over to his sister-in-law instead, "change of plans, you're gonna have to play chauffeur. Can't promise you the cute little hat that comes with the job though."

"What?" Anya said stupidly through the rolled-down window, a tear trickling down her cheek, followed by another and then another.

"Get out of the car, Anya, and haul your hot little ass upfront," Negan said through gritted teeth, "you're going to take our new friends to the hospital, and our new friends are going to act as if none of this never happened, okay? You never saw us, you never saw anything, nothing, nada. Fucking got it?" he aimed at the woman, rounding on her this time.

"Got it," the woman said stiffly, glancing at the man over her shoulder, the two of them exchanging odd glances. "But here's a heads-up, there's – there's something else going on, something the army is trying to cover up."

"Like what?" Negan said, even if he could give a good guess.

"We saw our neighbour eating his pet dog this morning," the woman said shakily, glancing up as Anya staggered out of the people-carrier, the baby's wails following in her wake, "just tearing out its insides with his bare hands. We just high-tailed it out of there. There was something wrong with his eyes, all white and shit, and he appeared to be injured, but it was like he wasn't even aware of it" -

\- "You're preaching to the choir, honey," Negan said dryly, indicating his blood-splattered clothes, "we've had a run-in with such undesirables too."

The woman hesitated, exchanging another glance with the man, almost like she was stalling. "That's what we thought," she then said brokenly, running her hand down the side of her face, "we've ran into a few people that look like you - like they've had a walk-on part in a horror film, said it was those – those... _things_ " -

\- "As much as I'd like to chinwag all day, we don't have the time," Negan cut across her, sensing beneath the woman's apparent calm she was about to crack, the words falling from her lips in a wild torrent, "just do as I say and keep your mouth shut. Don't mention one word about those... those things either." He shot a warning look at Anya, who was now clutching the steering wheel for support, forcing her to nod in agreement. "Imogen, you and I are going to make tracks," he then said, making to leave, "you too, Terry, unfortunately."

Imogen stared at him, startled. "What?" she said stupidly. "What are you talking about?"

"I am going to escort you home," Negan said mockingly, "like the fine gentleman I am."

"No, you're not," Imogen spat, not believing what she was hearing, "over my bloody dead body you will" -

\- "Maybe it will come to that, honey," Negan said brutally, "and what a pretty fucking fine corpse you'll make. But before you set off through the Valley of Death, tell me something, do you even know your way from here to the art gallery?"

Imogen's jaw tightened, hating herself for being helpless, completely clueless to where the hell she was. She had been trailing after Terry since the woods, not knowing where she was going, relying on him, then Negan, to get her to the art gallery. "Terry does," she said reluctantly, "he'll take me there" -

\- "But Terence might just bail - _again_ " -

\- "Then I'll find a bloody map!" -

\- "Where? Walmart? I'd like to see you sail into a store looking like you've fell afoul of Freddie Kruger" -

\- "Well, I'll ask for fucking directions, then!" -

\- "Or you _could_ just let me escort you home," Negan reiterated, raising his eyes heavenwards, "like I keep fucking trying to tell you."

"Look, I'll walk," Imogen said wildly, making to leave, sensing she was losing what little control she had left of the situation, "just go" -

\- "Just shut the hell up and listen," Negan said, rounding on her, grabbing her wrist, "you're not going anywhere, okay? Not alone and especially not with fucking Terry."

Imogen stared at him for the umpteenth time. "What's it to you?" she said in disbelief. "You don't know me, you said it yourself" -

\- "Do you know what internment camps are, Imogen?" Negan hissed. "They're just another word for concentration camps. The shit is hitting the fucking fan, kid, and I mean _really_ hitting it."

Imogen backed away from him, tearing her arm out of his grip, all the blood draining from her face, looking like she was going to faint. "What the hell are you doing?" she spat, suddenly rounding on him, her still damp hair whirling behind her. "Your place is with your family, not us, not me!"

"Let's just say you're my good deed of the day," Negan drawled, towering over her, "so shut the hell up and appreciate all of the warm fuzziness." He turned away from Imogen, face bored. "Anya, honey, throw me my phone," he then said to Anya, jerking his chin at her, "I'll ring Rae and say I'm caught up in a roadblock. I won't exactly be lying, will I?"

Anya didn't answer him, only rummaging through the glove compartment with trembling fingers, before throwing the phone to Negan, who almost dropped it.

"Nice catch," Terry said sarcastically, "you should try out for the Dodgers."

Negan just flipped him the middle finger, making to stow the phone away in his back pocket, only to freeze at the wild expression on Imogen's face. "What the fuck is up with you now?" he bellowed. "You break a fucking nail or something?"

"Give me that," Imogen said, making a mad snatch for his phone, "I need to use it!"

"What, and bring fucking half the American army down on us!?" Negan snapped, shoving her back, making her stagger. "They could be tapping your fucking calls for all we know! Tracing the signal right back to us! So think first, you stupid little idiot!"

Imogen recovered her balance, breathing heavily, hatred curdling in her eyes.

"Listen to me, and listen real close," Negan said, holding her gaze hostage, roughly tilting her chin upwards, "you helped me and mine, so I'm gonna help you, but only if you stop being an ass, okay? The way you're acting right now is tantamount to suicide. You need to get a grip and fucking fast. This is the way the world is going to be from now on and you need to be more than ready for it" -

\- "Fuck off" -

\- "You want to find your family?" Negan hissed, twisting her face further upwards, Imogen brutally breaking his grip by tearing herself out of his hold again. "Because you're not going to with the way you're carrying on, kid."

"What, and you're the man to make sure I will?" Imogen said scornfully, barely glancing up as Anya drove away in a storm of screeching tyres and skid-marks.

"You need somebody to watch your back," Negan grinned wolfishly, "so do you trust Terry to do it?"

Imogen looked at Negan for a long moment, not even sparing Terry a glance. "You can't stop an army singlehandedly," she pointed out coldly. "I don't understand why you're even thinking of trying."

"Really?" Negan said, his green gaze shamelessly raking her up and down. "I would think it was fucking obvious."

Imogen stood her ground, even as she wanted to break his jaw, to wipe that mocking look off his face. "Give me one good reason why I should accept your offer," Imogen said, full lips thinning, desperation driving her to the deed, the art gallery suddenly seeming like a thousand miles away from her. She knew she was staking all her bets on the one horse, but she had to start somewhere, and she knew Doc would want her to find Michonne and Andre first, Doc always putting them before himself, expecting Imogen to follow his example.

"You need to get from A to B without any bullshit," Negan said abruptly, "which means no phones, no hysterics, no nothing. You have to blend in, to be hidden in plain sight, which means we can't walk around like we've just took a fucking detour through an fucking abattoir," he said, indicating their bloodied clothes, "and we also need to find a vehicle, weapons, supplies, canned food, bottled water" -

\- "Whoa, hold the hell up," Imogen exclaimed, doing a double-take, "we're not going to war. We're just trying to get to an art gallery."

"Same difference."

"Seriously!?" Imogen said in disbelief.

"Okay, okay," Negan admitted, holding his hands up, "I may have played one too many video games. Let's just stick with cleaning ourselves up and scoring ourselves a fucking full stomach." To his surprise, Imogen's lips twitched, and then she was suddenly smiling, amused against her will, the expression altering her face entirely. Negan stared at her, uncharacteristically caught off-guard, before recovering himself, jaw tightening. "I take it we have a deal, then?" he said coldly. "Or has somebody drawn a fucking dick on my face?"

"This is insane," Imogen said, shaking her head, "you're insane."

"It's an insane world now, kid," Negan said tiredly, "now let's hit the trail."


End file.
